The Sound Of Stardust
by Andriech
Summary: Complete in 9 chpts. Chekov, when the hell did you get married? McCoy's question is the only easy one the Security Chief is facing when they pick up the survivors of a crash. Adult themes in later chapters.Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

James Kirk had long since accepted that the universe was full of wonders, and he expected it to be so. Nonetheless, the universe managed to surprise him on occasion anyway.

Beside him in the turbo lift stood a man he thought he had known for four years. As a Captain--as a friend--he had won Pavel Chekov's trust and come to believe he knew him: but he was wrong. Despite his friendly nature, the Security Chief was a profoundly private individual and Kirk now found himself reminded of this.

"Chekov," McCoy demanded irately. "When in damnation did you go off and get married?"

The Security Chief stood stiffly, his face ashen as he stared off at some distant point far outside the lift they were on. "My freshman year at the Academy," he answered tonelessly without shifting his gaze.

The Captain's insides chilled less at the unexpected answer and more at the emotionless delivery. The man's wife had been on a star cruiser that had crash-landed on the planetoid they now approached. Unable to obtain casualty lists, Kirk had expected the wildly emotional Chekov to be nearly berserk with the enforced ignorance. He was, instead, uncharacteristically cold and uncommunicative.

The Doctor pressed on with undisguised outrage. "Chekov, are you telling me that you've been married the whole time we've known you?"

"Yes, I was married when I posted to the Enterprise," Chekov responded evenly.

Kirk watched the young man's face as McCoy grilled him. _Young?_ No, he supposed this was not the same twenty-one year old that the Captain had hand-picked from his graduating class at the Academy all those years ago.

Second in his class and already a brillant navigator, Kirk had impatiently waited for the new Ensign to take his post on the bridge. Starfleet required that new command officers serve in every department to familiarize themselves with the ship before taking their final posting. An affable, charming young man with a quick wit, Chekov made friends quickly and was well-liked by the time he settled into the bridge. The new Navigator seamlessly became a member of the family that was the Enterprise's primary bridge team.

Despite all this, the friendly Chekov actually trusted very few people as his friends. He never spoke of his background, offering only the pale information that his parents were cultural anthropologists that worked for the government; and that he'd traveled with them extensively as a child. While he lauded Russia in general and spoke with a Slavic accent, no one actually knew where he was born. Uhura pointed out that his various mispronounced English words were attributable to several different regions: something unlikely at best. In fact, one time when she had sat with the semi-conscious Navigator in sickbay, she made the startling revelation that he actually spoke Russian with an accent as well.

Only Sulu–whom he had known from the Academy–did Chekov consider a friend immediately. The Navigator's professional trust of his colleagues came quickly. His personal trust for them, however, was harder won and Kirk had felt a certain amount of satisfaction as he had edged his way into Chekov's personal space. He had thought they'd become friends.

It was obvious now that it was not so.

"This woman who you're married to, who is she? She's a dancer?" McCoy was demanding irritably.

Kirk understood the man's tone and couldn't deny he agreed with it. The Captain felt betrayed that after all this time his Security Chief had failed to mention such a charming little detail as the fact that he was married. Had always been married. _Freshman year,_ he thought irritably. _Eight years ago. _

Chekov had never acted married and Kirk admitted to feeling self-righteous on behalf of the man's varied girlfriends. The younger man had truthfully always been the one to end the relationships and the Captain now wondered if any of them knew why. Of course, even marriages came in all different forms and he was in no position to judge the nature of another person's relationships, but there had never even been a mention of her on Chekov's part. _Hell, had he just left the woman back on Earth and forgotten about her?_

The stiff, emotional detachment in the young man's form didn't waver as he answered the Doctor's question. "Tatiana Demidova is currently the principal female dancer with the Maryinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia, Sir."

Kirk shifted his jaw, casting a wry smirk at his friend. It was so like Chekov, who exaggerated lies, to diminish the truth. "The Prima Ballerina in the finest ballet company on Earth," he translated. "They were on a cultural exchange tour when their transport crashed." He watched Chekov for his expected response to the bait, but was discouraged when he didn't get it. While it was true that the Maryinsky had always been accepted as the finest classical training available, classical ballet was only a branch of the art. It was like claiming Beethoven was better than Mozart, and Chekov wasn't one to accept such simple assertions. That the Security Chief didn't argue with Kirk said something about his mood.

McCoy jammed his arms across his chest and growled. "When we found them, you said Tatiana was 'a close relative of your fathers'!"

"She is," Chekov retorted. "She's his daughter-in-law."

Kirk's hand shot out to stop McCoy's instinctive lunge, but it was the Security Chief's further statement that stopped him in his tracks.

"Tatiana is also my sister."

"You married your sister?"

"Yes," he replied thickly as he stepped out of the turbo lift.

"Bones!" the Captain grasped his friend's arm as the Security Chief moved crisply down the corridor toward the transporter room. "Pavel Chekov is an only child," he reminded him.

"Chekov seems to have a curious problem remembering that," the Doctor observed irritably.

"Tatiana is–was–his parent's ward," Kirk informed him as he moved to quickly follow Chekov. "Not his biological sister."

"He told you that?" the Doctor asked with surprise as he scrambled along beside him.

"No," he replied tartly. "I'm the Captain. I checked his record when I found out he was married."

"Damn convenient."

"Yes," Kirk agreed. "It can be." That Chekov claimed he married his sister was a sobering thought to the ship's Captain. The younger man knew well Kirk's values and it was as though Chekov was now purposely seeking to drive the widest wedge he could between them. It was a reminder that Kirk had not moved beyond the wall with which the Russian kept his non-friends at bay. The Security Chief only seemed to be fortifying the barrier now.

"The man could have mentioned that she was their ward, not his sister," McCoy commented with ill-humor.

"Bones, " the Captain spoke as they entered the transporter room to prevent their minds from becoming mired in the subject. "We have a shipload of battered and traumatized people to attend to. I believe they deserve our attention without the distraction of gossip about Chekov's personal life."

The point taken, McCoy's jaw shifted and he lapsed into silence as he followed Kirk into the room. Chekov had always had a peculiar dislike for gossip; the reasons why seemed clear now.

"Captain," Spock said as Kirk approached him. "We have isolated the wreckage on the planetoid. The survivors appear to have set up a rudimentary camp nearby utilizing available materials. From movement of life signs, we have determined that there are, indeed, injured among them: some are registering as immobile. In addition," he began, but stopped with a glance over to confirm Chekov's location on the platform already.

Kirk often wondered if it was his years among humans or his mother's influence that had made Spock so sensitive to human needs. It was a sensitivity the Vulcan would have denied with feigned ignorance had it ever been pointed out to him.

"There are several organic forms–human from their composition--without life signs," the Science Officer concluded quietly. "They are isolated from the others."

"Can we beam down our party away from all human forms?"

Spock nodded. "I anticipated such a request and located a central clearing among the rock outcroppings, free from vegetation and all life forms. Sickbay teams are prepared to beam down directly to the survivor's camp from the emergency transporter as soon as we establish orbit."

"Thank-you, Spock. Your efficiency makes my job easier."

"As it should."

"Captain," Transporter Chief Kyle cut in then. "The bridge reports that we're in orbit."

"Thank-you, Mr. Kyle. Gentlemen," he prompted Spock and McCoy onto the transporter platform.


	2. Chapter 2

'Clearing' was a kind description of the spot the ship's Science Officer had located. The planetoid was little more than dirt and rocks; where they materialized the dirt just happened to spread further between the rocks than it did in other locations. Kirk, in fact, wondered how the space object managed to hang onto a breathable atmosphere.

"Doctor," Spock intoned, calling McCoy's attention to a rock outcropping to their left. "Your team should be beaming down to the camp which you can reach through those rocks. Captain, with your permission, I will explore to the east."

"Best speed, Spock."

"I will assist…"

"No," Kirk spat out instantly, stopping Chekov in his tracks. "You know these people. I want you stationed at this central location to act as the ship's liaison if need be."

"Yes, Sir," the man replied formally. His stiffened jaw and averted eyes clearly betrayed his feelings about the order, however.

"You'll excuse me if I go see to my medical staff." McCoy's subdued tone was an acknowledgment of the tension that was obvious between the two command officers he left behind.

The normally chatty Lieutenant uttered not a sound as he waited alone to the side of the clearing. He didn't even move: just stood ramrod straight as Kirk slowly paced a few steps this way and that to keep his thoughts from settling unpleasantly. He had never seen Chekov in this kind of mood. Although the Security Chief was not nearly so impulsive as he had once been, Kirk was used to Chekov's quick bursts of temper that flared up instantly and then burned out as quickly. A fire's true danger was beyond the flames, however: in the intensity of the raging coals that a well fueled burn left behind. That's what the Captain now sensed in the outwardly emotionless man he stood with and he was unnerved by the feeling that Chekov was a far more dangerous man than he'd ever expected.

Kirk hesitated as he saw Spock's form reappear amidst the rocks. The Science Officer said nothing, but Kirk still understood the information he imparted. The Captain moved carefully over to where Chekov stood as the Vulcan returned to tend to the bodies. "Pavel," he said gently then, fortified by Spock's silent information. "I'm sure she's alright."

He received no response except for the tightening of the man's already rock-hard jaw and silence fell between then again. It was the first time they'd been alone since the Captain had told him of the crash. Kirk hadn't felt the same about his Security Chief since. On a moment-to-moment basis he was fighting an all-too human wash of anger, betrayal and outrage that threatened to consume any temperate thought within him. He didn't understand which aspect of the situation–the marriage, the man's behavior, his deception–went with each emotion at any given point in time, but he couldn't bring himself to feel any sympathy for the person he'd thought of as a friend.

"Are the two of you close?" he attempted with tight politeness.

"She's a pain up my ass," Chekov snarled in reply, his dark eyes still frozen in the distance.

Kirk smiled slightly. "You mean 'a pain in the ass'."

"If you say so, Sir," he replied stiffly.

"Pavel!"

Both men glanced quickly toward the voice. At the rock outcropping that had earlier swallowed the Doctor stood a young woman, her dirt-smudged face still reflecting an inner glow from the joyous smile that energized her entire being. "Malyenki!"

She flew across the clearing, her slender body gracefully soaring into the air and nearly over Chekov's head. He thrust his arms upward and caught her before she did.

"Tiana!" With an uproarious laugh of delight and relief, he held her up there: grinning wildly at her.

Kirk watched the two, eyes mesmerized by the woman in Chekov's hands. Her close-fitting, charcoal-gray coveralls, soft boots and tangled ponytail were imbedded with the planet's red soil. Yet even the simplist of her movement were inued with such utter grace and natural refinement that anyone who saw her would have known immediately that she was of royal breeding. A princess. A fairy princess, the Captain allowed himself to fantasize. For she had taken flight before his eyes, slipping into the air and rising above mere soil to alight into the Security Chief's arms.

No, Kirk recriminated himself, reigning his fantasies in. She had not really flown in front of him. She was a professional ballet dancer and what he'd just seen was a simple lift. Although Chekov had only taken a few years of ballet as a very young child, he had obviously learned how to partner the move along the way.

Chekov lowered her now, letting her slide down until his lips could catch hold of hers in desperate relief.

"_Chot!_"

Startled, Kirk glanced over and found a middle-aged man standing near the rock outcropping. In coveralls that matched the woman's, the man stood frozen: his wide gray eyes riveted on the Security Chief and his wife.

The Captain strode over to him and offered his hand. _"Privyet,"_ he said hello in Russian. "I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise.

"Hello?" he ventured again when he received no reply.

The man started, glancing at Kirk. He seemed surprised that he wasn't alone. Smiling with some measure of embarassment, he took the Captain's hand. "I'm sorry, Captain: Anatolya Ivanovich, current Director of the Mariinsky Theatre."

He glanced distractedly at Chekov again before continuing, brushing tangled, wiry brown hair off his forehead. "I must say that we're privileged to be rescued by the finest ship in the galaxy. Your reputation far precedes you."

"We're just doing our job," Kirk smiled easily. His eyes curiously followed the Director's gaze as he glanced furtively, yet again, at the Security Chief.

Chekov's mouth held fast to the woman's, hungrily losing himself completely in the unexpected, delicious taste of her soft lips. _I could do this forever,_ he thought. _I want to do this forever._..

He let his mouth open slightly and tenuously caressed her lips with his tongue. An explosion of heat roared, consuming all reality within him and deafening him. He jerked his mouth away in sudden alarm but held her up at eye level still, entranced by her face and tumbling into the well of her eyes. He was startled by the torrent of raw emotions that crashed up from somewhere deep inside him. Startled, stunned and exhilarated.

"You've lost weight," he said breathlessly to avoid the subject: as though she wouldn't know what he was thinking anyway. Chekov's smouldering brown eyes stared at her as if he'd never seen this woman before: saw features for the first time that he'd thought were already wll-memorized.

Despite the dirt and bruises, he drank in the river of her thick, shining hair, the color of new clover honey; possessed the image of her perfect, delicate features and petal-soft skin; and reeled in the completeness he felt as her crystalline blue eyes met his. Chekov flushed: feeling horribly, embarrassingly exposed. He forced himself to set her down on her own feet, but left his hands resting on her arms. "You've lost at least two pounds."

Wide eyes stared up at him through long, curved lashes; but something primal in them went unvoiced. She scowled at him instead. "I was just in a space crash, Pavel Andrieivich. I like these new uniforms," she commented, shifting the subject swiftly. Her delicate hands smoothed over his burgundy uniform jacket and sent another rush of warmth exploding through his chest. "These have a much more military bearing. Those grey things were horrible."

"I'll be sure to let the Fleet know you approve," Chekov assured her with a wry smirk, still reluctant to let go of her arms. "You can't afford to lose two pounds," he insisted thickly then, returning adroitly to the subject she'd tried to avoid. "What's Anatolya doing about this? Is he even aware of it?

"Anatolya." Chekov beckoned the man standing with Kirk, a dark timbre in its tone. Showing no respect for military decorum, the Ballet's Director instantly excused himself from the Captain and hastened over to where the Security Chief had paused after moving away from the woman.

The Captain watched them only momentarily before letting his shift to the woman who stood, deserted--as in life, he thought ruefully--by Chekov. He strolled over to her and smiled charmingly. "Tiana, I can't begin to express what a pleasure it is to finally meet you." He couldn't bring himself to call her Mrs. Chekov.

Several inches shorter than Chekov and barely one hundred pounds, Kirk could see she was a true Russian beauty even through the crashes effect on her appearance. The young woman tilted her head and cast up sparkling eyes to touch his hazel ones with a devilish glint. The delicate curve of her lips shifted imperceptibly. "I'm sure the wait was intermimible, Captain." The color of her eyes would have rivaled even the finest sapphire.

Kirk pressed his lips together, but then grinned. It was clear from her toying look that she knew full well he hadn't known about her. "Yes," he insisted broadly. "The last two days have been torture."

A brilliant smile swept over her face, lighting up her entire countenance. "From what I know of Pavel Andrievich, I imagine they were."

Kirk's grin only deepened. Beautiful and quick-witted, the Captain decided he understood why Chekov had married her.

"Captain…"

"Jim."

She smiled gently. "Jim," she acknowledged. "My name isn't Tiana."

"I'm sorry," he instantly apologized. "I thought I heard Mr. Chekov call you that."

"Oh, you did," she answered amiably. "Pavel calls me that to annoy me: he always has. It isn't even remotely Russian. I've always ignored it to irritate him back." Her smile sparkled in the depths of her eyes. "We both seem to have a bit of a stubborn streak."

"Really?" Kirk asked broadly, hazel eyes sparkling wickedly. "Now, I hadn't noticed that about Mr. Chekov." The name clearly had become an endearment between the two.

She laughed, a merry sound like musical notes skipping away on the air. "Jim, both Tanya and Tatenka are nicknames for Tatiana."

"Tatiana is too beautiful a name to shorten." He smiled charmingly, took her delicate hand and lifted it to his lips: touching it with a kiss.

With utmost poise, her long, graceful neck drew up and her shoulders eased back in the most enchanting recognition of his gesture that he could have hoped for. Kirk released the woman's hand, but then hesitated as his attention was caught by the strident note he heard in his Security Chief's distant voice. He glanced across the clearing to where the younger man stood with the Ballet's Director. What drew his attention was the volume of Chekov's voice. It was not raised: in fact, it was lowered to a thunderously quiet level.

"Do you think this is some kind of joke?" the Security Chief was demanding, his tone flat and accent faded. "What are you doing dragging the Motherland's finest dancers into outerspace anyway? Space travel isn't safe! You risked our cultural treasures for the sake of your own personal ego."

"We're on a cultural exchange tour," the Director replied hurriedly with a strange note of panic in his voice. "It was arranged by the Ministry of Culture. You knew about it!"

"You should never have been traveling in outer space."

"What were we supposed to do, let them all come to us?"

"Yes!" Chekov retorted, his voice strident again. "If they wish to see the magnificent culture the Motherland has to offer, they can come to Russia!"

The Captain forced back a smile with difficulty, catching Tatiana's expression as she rolled her eyes outlandishly. Chekov was being ridiculous. Kirk moved to address the issue, but felt the gentle brush of her fingertips on the back of his arm. He was charmed by the wink she didn't give him but he clearly saw.

She turned to her husband without sign of having overheard the conversation he was having with the Director. "Lt. Chekov."

He glanced at her sharply. The Security Chief squared his shoulders, a shadow of embarrassment glancing over his features so quickly that it was almost as invisible as the wink. There wasn't any recrimination in her tone: she didn't need it. Chekov knew expected appropriate behavior for a Starfleet Officer.

"Captain Kirk needs your advice."

The man's face turned sullen; something the Captain recognized even from where he stood. It was hidden by the time the man approached them.

"Yes, Sir?"

"We were discussing the company's need for practice space," she explained before Kirk could say anything. "Since you are the only one familiar with both the company's needs and the ship's composition and operation, the Captain was seeking your recommendation."

Eyeing her with charmed interest, Kirk clasped his hands behind his back sedately. As a Starship captain, he rarely allowed himself to be manipulated into such a position. He was instantly entranced at how diplomacy was such a nimble plaything in her delicate fingers. If first impressions were an important thing, than she had made an indelible one already, considered the Captain. Such a diminutive thing, she still exuded a presence of elegant, impermibile grace that no sane person would contend with. _Hell,_ he thought. _I don't think Chekov ever had a chance._

"We'll need a barre. The mirrors are luxuries," the Director was saying as he joined them. "But we can't practice without a barre."

"Practice!" McCoy demanded from the side of the clearing, his steel blue eyes wild with outrage. "Are you insane? Jim, you can't be seriously considering their request," he roared as he quickly strode over to the group. "These people need rest and time to heal. I'd recommend a month at least!"

"They're ballet dancers," Chekov replied levelly. "Not circus performers."

The Doctor threw a hand up in his face. "I don't care if they're Starfleet Special Ops Forces, Chekov! They've just crash landed!"

"Doctor McCoy," the Security Chief snarled under his breath. "A five minute ballet is more physically taxing than six rounds of boxing. Even one day without practice requires weeks to get a dancer's body back into proper condition to perform. Practice is not an option. It's a requirement. There's no telling how much of a setback the crash has already been."

"Jim," McCoy insisted angrily again. "It's against my medical advice to even consider letting any of these people work out. I won't allow it on my ship."

Chekov's jaw tightened and he stiffened his shoulders in response. "Doctor, you and your medical staff aren't qualified to make such a decision. The Company's Doctor will determine if there are any dancers who require medical leave."

"Mister Chekov," the Doctor rasped back. "As a Starfleet Officer, you are well aware the medical condition of everyone aboard the Enterprise is my jurisdiction and my determination overrules even the Captain's authority."

"The Company Doctor knows..."

"Dr. Grigorivich is dead."

Chekov turned slowly to fix the Director with cold, dark eyes. "What?"

The man swallowed hard and shifted before he answered. "I'm afraid the Company Doctor died in the crash, Pavel."

Silently, the Security Chief's brown eyes held the older man frozen a long moment. "How could you allow such a thing to happen?" he asked tonelessly.

The man reacted violently then, throwing his hands into the air. "I'm not God!" he burst out in exasperation. "Pavel, how can I possibly be held responsible for who died in the crash!"

Chekov glared at him, eyes growing even darker. "Do you want to keep your job?" His words were almost too quiet to hear.

"Gentlemen," Kirk cut in sharply. "Obviously, our guests do have special needs which should be addressed. Mr. Chekov, until further notice you are to consider your only duty to be a liaison to them."

"Sir, I am fully able to attend to my other duties as well as..."

"You have your orders, Lieutenant," the Captain continued abruptly, glancing at him sharply. "I expect you to carry them out utilizing your full understanding of the ship's normal operations." _Including_, thought Kirk fiercely,_ how McCoy has to operate his sickbay._

"Understood, Sir," Chekov replied, subdued.

"Good. Now, see to the planet-side medical staff," he instructed.

"Yes, Sir."

Strangely, what struck the Captain as he watched Chekov leave was how attractive the younger man was. Any children he had with Tatiana would be stunning, and no doubt brilliant. He didn't understand how, after marrying this enchanting and beautiful young woman, the Security Chief could have left alone her back their home world. He felt somewhat self-satisfied that his orders would force the man to spend time with his wife.

The orders also meant Kirk would not be spending as much time in close proximity to the man as would be usual. He would have more space: more time to find a way to completely readjust his image of a man he'd thought was his friend.

"You'll have to give him a bit of levity," the Captain explained to the Ballet's Director apologetically when Chekov was out of earshot. "Understandably, he's also had a lot to deal with himself lately."

"He's tense," McCoy commented lightly. "Don't worry about it: it's not like he can really threaten your job, after all."

The Director scowled, looking at the Doctor strangely. "Who do you think got the last Director fired?"

The Enterprise officers exchanged a surprised look as Tatiana nodded sublimely.

"Had him sent to a penal colony, too," she added.

"Gentlemen," the Director insisted fiercely. "I don't know anything about the situation with this 'Lieutenant Chekov' on your ship, but I can assure you of one thing:

"In Russia, Pavel Andrieivich is not a man to cross."


	3. Chapter 3

Chekov opened the door and leaned his shoulder against the bathroom doorjamb. He eyed the shower stall with a not so subtle irritation at the steam fogging it. "Tiana?" he asked. "Are you planning to stay in there all night?"

He saw her stretch luxuriously under the stream of water. "I just don't feel like I'll ever be clean again." She let out a delicious sigh. Wiping a clear spot in the stall enclosure, she peered out at him through it. "I thought I'd wait for the hot water to run out."

His smile was charming. "Tiana, the ship's water is continuously recycled: you'll never run out of hot water. In fact, you're showering in the very same water you were showering in an hour ago."

"Oh."

"Come to bed already," the Security Chief insisted. "Turn off the water and finish with an ion shower: you'll be clean and dry."

Barefoot, he padded back into the bedroom, pausing to check the cabin's environmental controls again. He shifted uncomfortably, his skin crawling from the temperate setting, but he left it as it was set anyway. Chekov's eyes fell on the grooming set lying on the dresser as he turned to move away.

Tentatively, he reached out and touched the birch brush: letting his fingers trace over the intricate pattern carved into it. There really hadn't been much left from the crash for her to add to his quarters. In even these littlest of reminders of her actual presence, however, he found a soothing sense of..._correctness_.

A smile tugged gently at the corner of his mouth and he grasped the brush, eyes sparkling as he brought it over to the bed with him. He quickly propped the pillows against the shelf and stepped up onto the bed. Chekov walked about, jostling until he found the right spot. Crossing his ankles then, he let himself settle neatly down on top of his crossed legs and feet. He pushed the brush in between his legs and casually rested his hands on top of it, waiting patiently for her.

Tatiana came in with bare feet and wearing her now-clean coverall. She paused at the dresser, taking the time to sweep her long tresses back over her head and shake them out luxuriously.

The action distracted Chekov from his task. He watched, transfixed, as she finger-combed her thick hair, his chest swelling with an intense, unexpected heat. It was clean now and shone even in the cabin's artificial light. At least two shades lighter brown than his, it had a golden amber glow to it that defied definition: the color of fresh clover honey, the color of Baltic cognac amber.

"Pasha!"

He blinked, startled. "Yes?"

"Have you seen my brush?"

"Brush?" he repeated innocently. Chekov watched her carefully. It was always this way when they first met again: always the question of which would remember first. The question of which would be prepared...

"Yes, my brush. It was here."

The innocence washed over his face as his eyes widened. "Which brush?"

"Malyenki!" she exclaimed as she turned to him with exasperation. "I only had one..." She froze, her eyes riveting on his sedately seated form and folded hands. She growled out loud.

Chekov waved the brush at her and grinned in happy triumph. She had forgotten--and he had won.

Running over to the bed, she lurched for the brush, but he jerked it away and stretched to hold it out of reach. Tatiana scrambled over the top of him and growled fiercely as she strained to grab it. As soon as her grasping fingertips touched it's base, Chekov tossed it over his head and caught it in the other hand, however. She scrambled over again to retrieve it but he pulled it out of her reach again, laughing as she repeatedly lunged for it and he jostled it back and forth between his hands.

She knelt up on top of his folded legs and snatched at the brush but he quickly passed it behind his back, then held out both his hands to illustrate that he no longer held it. Snarling at him, she locked both her hands around his neck firmly and yanked him forward. She crawled up over the top of him, suspending herself from his shoulder as her hands searched downward, finally pushing their way into the waistband of his pants.

The wicked, devilish laughter shook Chekov's body so hard, it was painful. She pushed him upright again: mute fury glaring at the tears streaming out of his eyes. He shrugged in elaborate ignorance of the brush's location.

She sat back on her feet then, and her bright eyes narrowed as she studied him. She suddenly thrust her hands into his lap, digging between his folded legs.

"Hey!" he roared. "That's NOT the brush!"

"I know!" she retorted. "WAY too small!"

"Oh, very funny!" he snarled, squirming as her hands pushed about under him. Tatiana gave up, pulling her hands free and digging them, instead, into his sides.

He gasped, roaring in pinched laughter. "Tickling humans qualifies as torture!"

"Luckily, you're not human!" she declared.

"Stop it!" he gasped. "Stop it!" He was writhing by this time, his body twisting in spasms as he tried to get away from her persistent hands. It was truly unfair as her ballet training had long since made her immune to tickling.

Tatiana grabbed the brush as it came out from under him, but he snatched at it immediately and wrested it out of her hand. They scrambled in a twisting, tangled mess until she flattened him on the bed and pounced on top of him like a cat. She squirmed on top of him, jamming her weight into his stomach through her knee caps. He groaned in agony and tried to push her up by grasping her at her arms.

"Let me have it!" Tatiana demanded in outrage. "Let me have it!"

"Absolutely!" he declared in return, rapping the brush soundly into the top of her head.

She screamed, sitting bolt upright and swatting at the attacking brush with her hands. He groaned in return as her movement ground her entire weight into his abdomen. Chekov quickly spun her over, pinning her on the bed beneath him. He grinned wildly as she snarled and began kicking and squirming beneath him with an unparalleled ferociousness.

Tatiana stopped suddenly, eyes shining brilliantly with impotent outrage. He laughed devilishly in triumph, chest heaving and heart pounding as she glared up at him. She smiled softly then, reaching up to smooth her hands lovingly over his pectoral muscles. Her hands clenched his uniform shirt with a sudden fierceness, gripping a great wad of the material in her fingers. Except it wasn't only fabric that she grabbed.

Chekov roared in agony, reeling as the pain sucked the breath into his chest and held it there. Hot tears sprang into his eyes. She knew exactly the most sensitive, most useful, place to grab. He tried to gasp a measure of much-needed air into his chest: but even that caused more pain. He grabbed her hands and jammed them down as hard as he could with his own hands. It was the most useful thing his security courses had taught him: a person couldn't yank out hair if their knuckles were pushed as flat as possible. He was continuing to gasp in short, painful and useless breaths. "You're cheating."

"Cheating is all you know," she declared. "God modeled you after a gorilla for a reason. Give me the brush," she demanded in a childishly triumphant voice. "Or you lose more than your dignity."

Tentatively, he moved one hand away from protecting his chest hair. He held out the brush.

She grabbed it and released her hold on Chekov. He climbed off her onto the side of the bed and Tatiana scooted her way up into a sitting position. His hand shot out and grabbed her hair tight against the back of her skull and twisted his fingers into a tangled mess. She screamed.

This was the one manner of pulling hair that had no recourse. Humans couldn't reach the back of their skull to fight off the attacker and she had plenty of hair for him to anchor his fingers in. She found this out quickly as she tried to move several times only to freeze each time, gasping in pain. She finally growled low in her throat in frustrated defeat.

He held out his hand in front of her. "Tiana, I tangled it: I'll brush it."

"You want to brush my hair?" she asked, eyeing him strangely, her chest still heaving from the battle.

"I'm not useless," he insisted as he disentangled his fingers from her hair. "I can make a braid."

She glared at him suspiciously before relinquishing the brush.

Shifting, he spread his legs open and she climbed between them, settling with her back to him. He edged forward and tentatively touched his inner thighs to her slender hips. He was rewarded with a surging, downright sinful heat clutching at him. He swallowed hard and pressed tighter.

"Do you think I'm going to try to escape?" she asked in response to his movement.

"With you, I take nothing for granted," he replied as he set to methodically brushing her long, thick hair with the soft bristles.

Tatiana bent up her knees and began to examine her feet.

"Is something wrong?"

"Broken toe," she replied casually. "Clean break: it's not causing problems."

Chekov swept her hair over her left shoulder and leaned forward, pressing his chest against her back. He brushed his face past her warm, soft cheek as he peered down at her feet.

She covered her bare feet with her hands. "Stop it."

"Don't hide them," he urged. "Your feet are..."

"Hideous. My feet are hideous, Malyenki."

"Your feet are beautiful," he corrected warmly and kissed her shoulder.

Tatiana jerked her shoulder backward and jammed it into his chest. "Stop it."

He poked the brush into her side in retaliation. "Your feet are your most honest feature," he asserted as he put the brush down. Chekov pulled her hands away from them and let his own fingers brush over them gently in admiration.

The human foot had always held a strange fascination for the Security Chief. He knew their structure in the same intimate way that Scotty knew his engines. It was not a fetish as Sulu often teased him it was. It was the science involved in the foot's body mechanics that fascinated Chekov. He knew, because of the design of the human foot, that there had to be a God. The complex, intricate and compact design was perfect to achieve what should have seemingly been impossible. Dozens of bones, ligaments, tendons and muscles made possible walking, running, jumping, hopping, dancing...such a creation could not have been an accidental development of nature.

Chekov knew that it was strange that he noticed people's feet. He couldn't help it. He found it intriguing that what a person's feet looked like had absolutely no connection to how attractive they were. Some of the gentlest, attractive humans had the ugliest feet he'd ever seen. Yet, miraculously, they all accomplished their purpose–and they often bore a silent, hidden testament to a person's life.

The woman's feet he caressed now were, in fact, a hideous deformation of what the human foot should look like. Chekov loved them. They were a visible reminder of what he admired most about her.

Ballet, even at its purest, wrecked havoc on the human body–especially women's. Dancing en pointe damaged ankle, knee and hip joints; splintered shin bones and shortened calf muscles. It destroyed the human foot. He took her feet in both hands now and massaged them gently. Broken and rebroken bones were evident in the gnarled, twisted appendages. Callouses and raw areas were peppered with scars soft enough to tell him that she'd been on her toes on the planetoid. They would have been given a chance to harden if she hadn't been dancing.

The guilt washed up in him, unbidden as he continued to massage her feet. Chekov had met Tatiana at a rehab clinic where she had been sent to recover from an injury that should have ended a dancer's career. They had taken a risk in trying to get her back on the stage because of her abounding natural talent and fiery soul. She had only been twelve.

The guilt drew his lips into a fine line as he continued to massage her feet. It was illegal to put a dancer in toe shoes before the age of fourteen and a physical confirmed adequate growth levels. If only he hadn't been so self-absorbed and selfish when he had met her, if only he'd paid attention, if only he'd taken the time to notice...he could have spared her two years of abysmal torture at the hands of blind ambition. If only he'd taken the time to notice when she stopped sending computer vids and began writing letters instead,erhaps she wouldn't have been so close to death when they'd next met. She was only a little girl and he was her only friend in the world outside of dance. If he had only _done_ something.

She suffered bravely and silently, enduring the torture and working harder than humanly possible to give everything she'd had in return. The company had seen: they had known and said nothing. Their only concession was to spare her the cutthroat competition and jealousies that were necessarily rampant in a professional ballet company. At least that had allowed her to develop her magical ballerina's presence on stage into a public relations persona off-stage.

She had become Russia's number one cultural treasure: a princess that represented all that was good and noble about their arts and people. A kind woman with a perfect face, shining eyes, and rock-hard athletes body, she exuded poise, graciousness and dignity in all her dealings with people. A perfect ambassador; a royal that everyone loved and fought to meet.

Tatiana was a damn fine actress. The person the public knew was no more real than the fairytales she brought to life on stage. The fiery, iron-willed, pig-headed. spoiled, pain-in-the-ass Chekov knew remained all but invisible to her adoring fans. Her gnarled feet betrayed reality to him and that's why he loved them so. She still danced cheerfully without complaint through more pain than most dancers ever endured. Tatiana struggled to show the world the pampered princess they wanted to see and she did so with an unfailing graciousness they'd come to expect. They had no hint what misery in her life had brought her to this point. He worshiped her for it.

Chekov pressed his chest harder against her back and slipped his hands onto the top of her shoulders and squeezed. He kissed her cheek softly. "I will never let anyone ever hurt you again," he whispered. "Never."

She smiled sadly. Tatiana hadn't bothered to argue this point with him for years. He simply knew–knew in his very soul–that he'd been put in this universe to protect her. She brushed her cheek against his in a caress. "I know, Pavel Andrieivich," she said softly. "I know."

The touch of her cheek sent a renewed rush of warmth into his chest and the guilt overwhelmed him. He shifted backward quickly.

"My hair," she reminded him.

Still guilt-ridden, he reluctantly picked up the brush and began to sweep it over her thick hair. Every sweep of the brush filled the air with the scent of cherry blossoms: letting his mind reel with the idea that he was home in Russia.

"You're bed seems comfortable," she commented.

"It's not my bed," he rasped irritably. "Someone put a double bed in here when they found out about you. I had the mattress just as I like it. They'll probably give me a new one when you leave," Chekov complained.

"Marriage can be damned inconvenient," she commented.

"Yes, it can," he agreed. "The Captain is bent out of shape because I've had a wife at home while I've been romancing my way across the galaxy."

Tatiana chuckled. "Is that what you've been doing out here?"

"Okay," he scowled. "Kirk has been romancing his way across the galaxy, but I have had girlfriends."

"You haven't mentioned anyone since Sara. Who have you been dating?"

He drew her hair out, brushing it the entire length and holding it up to the light. It's amber shine transfixed him. "No one really."

"No one?"

"Well, I've had dates," Chekov said indignantly. "Lt. Donovan took me to a horror movie."

Tatiana chuckled knowingly again. "What you'll sacrifice for romance."

"I suggested we try an old MGM musical the next time," he replied dryly. "I think she transferred off the ship."

"You haven't had any repeat dates since Sara?" she persisted curiously.

"Riley arranged for seven days of Hornblower movies for my birthday. Does that count?"

She smirked. "You tell me."

Chekov pinched her and she slapped him. He set about working on her hair with energy then, his fingers separating her thick tresses as the brush set them neatly in order. In traditional Russia, the only male allowed to touch a woman's hair was her husband. The silky feeling of her hair against his skin made his fingers tremble deliciously.

"Is my hair falling out from radiation?" she asked tentatively, sensing his trembling.

He froze, surprised. "No. The Doctor said you're fine," he assured her.

She twisted her head around to cast him a dubious look.

"Really," Chekov insisted and held up the still-clean brush as proof.

Tatiana scowled at him now, her eyes fixing pointedly at his fingers which were entangled in her tresses.

He cleared his throat and shifted again, pulling his fingers free as she turned back around. He hurriedly twisted her hair into the single braid unmarried women in rural Russia traditionally wore. She hadn't changed her hairstyle after their wedding.

"Your friends are here," she commented as voices could be heard in the living area.

Chekov quickly shoved his hands into the bed on either side of him as Sulu appeared at the room divider.

The man hesitated, his eyes falling immediately on the Security Chief's attempt to hide the brush in his hand. "Did you still want to play here?" he asked. "We can go to my cabin if you want."

"No, I don't want to leave her alone. Set up the board so I can sit with my back to the wall and I can keep an eye on her."

"Are you going to play, Tatiana?" Uhura asked with a smile as she appeared next to the Helmsman.

"No," Chekov replied as he climbed off the bed. "She's going to sleep."

The Communications Officer raised an indignant eyebrow. "I asked her."

"Yes," Chekov said darkly as he replaced the brush on the dresser. "And I gave you her answer.

"Tiana, get under the covers," he continued. "I'm going to get another quilt. That one's only a large single and I don't want you getting a chill."

She winked at Uhura as she twisted around to push her feet under the bed linens. "You just don't want me hogging the blankets, Pavel."

"Like an extra quilt is going to stop you," he muttered irritably.

Reluctantly, Uhura disappeared into the other room after receiving a reassuring smile from the dancer.

Chekov hesitated at the bathroom door, eyeing Tatiana suspiciously. "You're going to stay there?"

The woman pulled up her knees under the blankets and wrapped her arms around them. "I give my word, I'll be right here when you get back."

His eyes narrowed and he stared at her another long moment distrustfully. "You're a horrid child."

"Am I?" she asked as if she were actually pondering the question.

"Yes," he insisted before disappearing into the bathroom.

"Hikaru!" Tatiana urged the moment the door closed. She scrambled off the bed and started tearing off the linens in a mad rush. "Get me towels!"

The Helmsman balked, horror shining in his dark eyes. "You've got to be kidding! He only went next door to steal my quilt! He'll be right back!"

"Hurry!" she demanded. "Towels!"

He shook his head enthusiastically. "You're not dragging me into the middle of this already!"

She glared at him. "Koshka," she drew out evenly, using his Russian nickname. "If you are not with me, than you are against me."

Sulu retrieved the towels instantly.

"Finally, a man with sense." She quickly spread the three thick towels down the legnth of the bare mattress' right side.

"No," he insisted in a hoarse whisper as he watched her upend a vase above the towels, soaking them with water. "There'll be retribution no matter what I do: and I'm not afraid of him!"

"Smart man. Quickly, help me remake the bed!"

Sulu did as ordered. "You know I grew those yellow roses especially for you."

"Thank-you, they're beautiful," she said sincerely as she climbed back onto the dry left side of the bed and pushed her feet under the covers. "He always keeps me surrounded by yellow roses: friendship roses."

"I know," the Helmsman acknowledged as he straightened the quilt. "You know he's just going to kick you off the bed and take the dry side."

"Let him try," she rasped with an evil tone. She cast a glance at the still closed bathroom door. "Koska," she confessed in a whisper. "Pavel kissed me when we met on the planet."

Sulu shrugged. "You're Russian, Tatenka. Russians always kiss and hug their family and friends when they meet."

"No," she insisted. "I mean he _kissed_ me."

Sulu stared at her silently.

"Why don't you say something?"

"Because," the Helmsman explained. "'You're out of your mind' seems as rude as 'you're lying.'

"Listen, you've been traumatized by the crash," he continued. "I'll bet a week's salary it just seemed like something it wasn't."

"I'll take that bet," she pronounced, quickly pulling up her knees as Chekov reappeared.

The Security Chief glanced oddly from one to the other, but said nothing as he spread the second quilt on top of her.

"See?" Tatiana reminded him. "I'm right where I promised to be."

"Congratulations," he quipped. "Here, drink this concoction Dr. McCoy sent. It'll help you sleep with your bumps and brusies." Taking the cup back from her after she obediently emptied it, Chekov kissed both her cheeks and then gave her a third kiss of devotion. "Good night, Tiana."

"Good night, Malyenki," she repeated as she settled back against the pillow. "Good night, Koshka."

"Good night," Sulu repeated dismally before following Chekov into the other room.

The younger man folded himself down Indian style on the floor on the open side of the board nearest the wall. He began to arrange his money.

"Pavel, I'm thoroughly impressed," Riley assured him. "You're cabin's actually warm tonight."

"It's stifling, Kevin," Chekov complained. "Spock might be comfortable, but I'm from Russia. Who's turn is it?"

"Yours."

The Security Chief threw the dice. "Am I the sailing ship?"

"Of course."

"You landed on a railroad," Uhura advised him.

"Buy it!" Riley proclaimed hurriedly. "Before Sulu gets them all again!"

"Hikaru likes choo-choos," Chekov insisted with a thick accent. "Even has whole sets of them hidden under his bed."

"Chekov!"

The younger man shrugged. "You do. I'll never put you on the Trans-Siberian Railroad again," he continued bitterly. "That was a waste of a shoreleave."

"Pavel, I got to drive it," Sulu reminded him. "You didn't complain at the time."

"I was being polite," Chekov said sourly. "Do you want to buy the railroad from me or not?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Hikaru, do you really have train sets?"

"Drop it, Nytoya."

Chekov leaned his head back against the wall, letting the conversation and game play drift around him as he shifted his eyes to the bed. Wide blue eyes met his immediately. She was still awake and she was staring at him: watching him sedately and somberly.

His body reacted instantly and he jerked his legs up against his chest so quickly he that upset the board.

"Pavel, watch your feet!" Uhura scolded with irritation.

"Sorry," he muttered, pushing his face in between his elevated knees in an attempt to hide his shocked horror at his own body's apparent independent revolt against sense.

"It's your turn, Pavel," Riley said.

"Kevin, I just went," he muttered into his knees.

"And then everyone else went again. Roll already."

"There. Move me." He glanced back toward Tatiana tentatively. McCoy's potion had finally taken effect but the warmth of the cabin was apparently uncomfortable to his fellow Russian as well. She had kicked the blankets almost entirely off herself and opened the top of her coverall. She was stretched out luxuriously in a classic pin-up pose, the pale flesh of her breasts swelling tantalizingly out from beneath the dark fabric that covered her body.

Chekov tightened his arms around his knees as his situation became downright painful.

"Pavel!"

"What!" he demanded angrily, jerking his head up at Sulu in response.

"You landed on Nytoya's property," the Helmsman explained–apparently again–as he eyed his friend curiously.

"You owe me rent," she said.

"Capitalist Pig," Chekov snarled thickly.

The group laughed, but Uhura persisted, her eyes shining with humor. "Cough up your soul to the landowners, Pavel."

He growled dramatically. "You should get a soul of your own," he protested sourly, accent even thicker.

They laughed again. While Chekov understood the game, having grown up in a communal farm community he could never quite put his fiercely competitive heart into acquiring real estate to degrade his opponents. He always managed to stay in the game until they neared the end, however, and was willingly entertaining while they played.

"Money. Now." Uhura ordered.

"Go ahead and take it," he succumbed with an obliging pout, glancing back toward Tatiana. He averted his eyes quickly, tightening his arms around his knees.

Sulu followed his glance and bit his lip knowingly as he laid his money down. "I'll take care of her," he offered, climbing to his feet. "Make sure Nytoya doesn't rob you blind."

She punched his leg as he passed. "We all know you cheat," the Helmsman maintained broadly, hopping quickly past her to avoid further attack. He was smiling as he gently rolled Tatiana onto her other side and reached for the scattered bed linens.

As soon as she was facing away from the others, a happy smile spread across her features and she chuckled devilishly. He jerked the quilts up over her, knowing perfectly well that she was both wide awake and well aware of the Security Chief's predicament.

"You're evil!" Sulu hissed quietly.

"Just how much do you make in a week?" she purred.

"Don't get cocky," he hissed again. "It happens in our sleep."

"Sulu! Don't wake her up!"

The Helmsman turned, gesturing with both hands in apology as Chekov glared at him. Sulu tapped four fingers horizontally across his abdomen, waist-high–the Russian gesture asking to split a bottle of vodka between four people.

"_Da_!" the Security Chief agreed urgently.

Retrieving a cold bottle from the cabin's chiller, Sulu wrapped it with a towel and grabbed four metal vodka cups. He peeled the metal top off the bottle as he entered the other room. It reminded him again that Russians believed a bottle of vodka had to be emptied once opened merely because no one in the country had ever had the brainstorm of inventing a Russian vodka bottle that could be resealed.

He handed Chekov a full vodka cup, which the man downed neatly and immediately held out for a refill. Sulu tipped the bottle to oblige him as he reached for another of the cups.

"Hey!" Chekov roared.

The Helmsman instantly righted the bottle as he realized the ice cold liquid was sloshing into the younger man's lap, not his cup. "Oh, God," he said flatly without any attempt to mask his bad acting. "I'm sorry.

"Here," he continued, dropping the towel he conveniently held into Chekov's lap. "You'd better go to the bathroom and change," he added.

Chekov scrambled to his feet, clutching the towel against himself. "Thanks," he growled sarcastically at Sulu as he passed him, but the gratitude and relief were abundantly evident in his deep brown eyes.

"What are friends for?" the Helmsman quipped, grinning.

"I'm glad your aim is better with the ship's weapons," Uhura commented as she accepted her own full cup.

Sulu smiled cryptically. "You have no idea."


	4. Chapter 4

"This is extraordinary," James Kirk marveled, holding his glass at eye level to consider its contents. "Bones, I didn't realize they made wine in Georgia. At least not anything but peach wine."

The Doctor shook his head as he swallowed his own mouthful of food. "This isn't from the United States, Jim. It's from the country of Georgia in the Russian Federation."

The Captain smirked, although the information didn't surprise him. "I had no idea that you had such an extensive knowledge of Earth geography and national export products."

"A ship's Chief Medical Officer has his sources," McCoy assured him. "I've grown quite fond of this wine." He picked up and eyed his own empty glass sorrowfully with a heavy sigh. "I don't imagine there's much of it left on the ship now."

"No," Kirk agreed, his eyes moving over the Enterprise's largest rec room, packed full of people enjoying the same wine and buffet of real Earth food.

"I can't help but feel guilty," Uhura commented as she laid her fork down on her filled plate. "Chekov must have completely emptied his Purser's stores to provide this dinner."

"And mine," Sulu added as he pushed a potato into his mouth. "He never has enough room in his own."

"He's welcome to store his wine in mine," McCoy offered helpfully. "Don't let it be said that I don't have compassion for a fellow officer's plight."

"Your generosity is humbling," the Helmsman grinned.

"Here, have some," the Doctor insisted, pushing a piece of meat at the man with a knowing smirk.

Sulu recoiled from the fork reflexively. "I know what that is!" he blurted.

"It's good, is what it is." McCoy offered the meat to Kirk when the Captain peered over to eye it curiously.

"It is good," the ship's commanding officer agreed after he accepted it. "I should have taken some of that stew. What is it?"

The Doctor laughed at Sulu's further shudder of disgust. "It's Rudolph. Reindeer meat," he clarified for the Captain's benefit. "Most of them live in Siberia, you know. Not the ones with red noses," he added with a wink at the Helmsman.

"And to think you claimed Chekov was spending too much time with Spock," Kirk observed with a glint in his hazel eyes.

"They're beautiful, affectionate animals," Sulu insisted. "I've ridden them. You wouldn't eat horse meat, would you, Captain?"

"No."

"I don't think," Uhura interrupted. "That we should philosophize about which ugly animals it should be okay to eat with an unheard of banquet in front of us, or with Mr. Spock in our midst," she added with nod to the man.

"Point taken," Kirk agreed. The Communication's Officer was right about a lot of things, he thought as he speared a bright orange piece of carrot: his mouth already watering from the sight of it. As was traditional in the service, every officer had their own storage section for personal items in the Purser's stores. Higher ranking officers had larger areas. It hardly seemed fair at the moment. It went beyond no one's notice that Chekov had an unimaginable number of people from back home sending him real food in long-term storage containers. Not one delivery for the Quartermaster to distribute failed to contain at least one package of edibles for the Security Chief since the day he'd arrived on the Enterprise as an Ensign. It was not even unusual for the ship to be flagged down only for the transfer of a special delivery item for him.

No one complained. Special delivery packages for Chekov always meant fresh citrus fruit for the entire crew at dinner. He shared his good fortune without hesitation or single note of regret. Low morale among the crew always caused an anonymous fresh food item among the cook's distribution of standard rations: whether is was meat, vegetables or real chocolate. Somehow it never failed to surprise and delight everyone although it was by no means unusual anymore.

It was also not like the Security Chief to single out guests and officers for special treatment. It was something else Uhura was right about. The wide variety the crew had to choose from for their dinner only proved that Chekov had to have used everything he owned on the ship to feed everyone this evening.

"To think I was looking forward to spam hash and red jell-O today," Chapel said wistfully.

"You should have asked," Uhura smiled at her. "I'm sure the cook would have accommodated."

The Nurse grimaced. "Perish the thought: I know what's for dinner tomorrow."

"Now," Montgomery Scott drew out, his eyes fixed beyond the large table they all sat at. "There's a sight to terrify any man."

Kirk choked on his food as the group's gaze unanimously followed the Chief Engineer's across the room and quiet laughter overtook them. Chekov stood with seeming ease as his wife and two of his former girlfriends chatted amiably before him.

"I don't care what anybody says," Chapel insisted, waving her fork for emphasis. "The open relationship concept simply doesn't work with humans. It's against our nature to...share."

"As a medical professional, I second that opinion," McCoy agreed. "Anyone who says otherwise is lying."

"Well, Landon told me Chekov talked about his 'sister' constantly," Uhura observed. "She did say it used to creep her out. She got the impression there was something weird about their relationship."

"Like they were actually married?" Chapel asked rhetorically.

Uhura hesitated, dark eyes staring at Chekov and his current companions. "I don't think that was it," she finally said cryptically.

"Have ye spent much time with them back home?" Scott asked the silent Director of the ballet company.

The man shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," he replied after a long moment. "I experience difficulty in gossiping about someone who is so rigorously opposed to the habit. Pavel Andrieivich wouldn't be happy."

Kirk chuckled. "On this ship Chekov..."

"Leaves the table when gossip begins," Spock observed flatly.

The Captain began to disagree, but stopped. Chekov's occasional, sudden memories of other pressing business that caused him to leave off-duty gatherings never seemed connected before.

"Mr. Spock," Uhura reflected. "There's a difference between friends expressing concern and people gossiping."

"Yes," Sulu maintained quietly without taking his eyes from his food. "Chekov would say it's the difference between talking TO a person or ABOUT a person." He glanced up and shrugged weakly when no one spoke. "I've known him too long."

Kirk drained his glass and cleared his throat. "Anatolya," he commented. "We're still scheduled to drop you at Starbase 12. Starfleet and 'the powers that be' are trying, as we speak, to arrange transportation that's better than their last suggestion."

The Director straightened, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "I'm sorry, Captain. I don't understand."

"I'm confident they'll be able to find a ship that will meet with your approval before we arrive," Kirk reassured him with a smile. "Frankly, I'm embarrassed. You were absolutely right about the Liberty Line. Starfleet should have known better than to just take the first ship available at the Base."

The man shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"The Liberty Line," the Captain insisted. "You were right to reject them as your ride home. Their maintenance history is frightening, and there have been several fines levied against pilots flying in unfit conditions."

Laughing, the Director shook his head. "Captain Kirk, I'm simply an artist. I wouldn't know the difference between a Class-A weld by top Starfleet engineers and duct tape. I certainly wouldn't have the first notion of how to check a commercial ship's repair records."

This time it was Kirk who frowned in curiosity. "I was told by Starfleet you refused to transport the ballet company aboard the Liberty Line's ship."

Anatolya shook his head again. "The only Starfleet personnel I've had any dealings with recently are aboard this ship. It wasn't me, Captain."

"Well, then who..."

"Good evening," Chekov said cheerfully as he took one of the empty seats across from Kirk. "How's the food tonight?"

The Director pointedly eyed the Security Chief and cleared his throat before returning his attention to his food.

"I was looking forward to the spam," Chapel complained again.

"Oh, I'm sure the cook always has spam available," Chekov assured her. "Just ask."

"Not worth the effort," she sighed, poorly attempting to hide a smile.

"Aren't you eating, lad?" Scotty asked.

"Of course he's eating," McCoy rasped. "Chekov's always eating."

"High metabolism," the man commented as he leaned back so that Tatiana could rest a plateful of food on the table before him. "You told me so, Doctor."

"Age catches up to us all eventually. I'm looking forward to it, son."

"I'll try not to disappoint you."

"What's the matter, Chekov?" Uhura questioned dryly as the man's wife set down her own plate and sat down next to him. "Did you sprain your arm, or was your plate just too heavy to lift yourself?"

The man scowled at her, but said nothing.

Blue eyes sparkling, Tatiana gave the Communication's Officer a bemused look as she ladled horseradish onto Chekov's plate.

"Too much," he complained, swatting her hand away.

"You like horseradish," she responded, spooning black current preserves into his glass of tea.

"I like breathing too," he rasped as he pushed the condiment off his food. "Stop that!" Chekov insisted as she only pushed it back on.

"It's good for you," she observed as she poured gravy over his food.

Growling, the Security Chief poked dismally at his food then. "Russians don't use gravy," he reminded her.

"You are not so Russian as you used to be, I think."

Chekov jabbed at her with his fork. Batting him away with as little thought as given to an insect, she slathered a roll with butter and placed it on his plate. He sliced off a piece of his meat and transferred it to her plate while she was preoccupied.

She noticed it anyway. "Stop that. I have all the food I want."

"You're too thin," he insisted. "You need protein to put weight on."

"Hey!" A male dancer paused by the table as he passed. "Watch that!" he ordered, pounding his fist into the Security Chief's shoulder. "I'm the one who has to hold her over my head fifteen hours a day!"

"Boris," Chekov snarled thickly. "If you're having trouble performing your job duties, I'm sure Viktor will be happy to take your place."

The man grinned, shaking his head as he strolled away. "Pasha," he drawled, "you're just too predictable."

"Too true," Uhura agreed, smiling at the Security Chief even as his wife furtively pushed the meat back onto his own plate. "Thank-you for the dinner, Chekov," she added quickly as she stood, keeping his attention as the woman hurriedly cut up the meat on his plate to hide the addition. "It was a treat."

"Thank the cook," the Security Chief professed as he began to eat. "It's his dinner."

"Sure it is," she drawled sarcastically as she left, casting him a sidelong glance.

Kirk eyes were fixed on Chekov as he ate. The man not only took in stride, but seemed to not even notice that Tatiana had not only chose and served him his food, but even cut it up as well. The Captain stood abruptly.

"If you'll all excuse me, I'm going to take this opportunity to mingle with our talented guests."

"Captain," the Director remarked as he stood as well. "Allow me to make your introductions."

Kirk smiled, hazel eyes warm. "I'd be honored, Sir."

Some time later, the Captain gently swirled the drink in his glass as he watched his companion frozen, transfixed in front of him. He knew what was holding the man's attention but ignored it.

"Anatolya."

Startled, the Director finally realized the summons was simply the last in a series. "I'm sorry, Jim," he smiled weakly. "You were saying?"

Kirk's eyes swept over the throng of people still gathered in the rec room again. "I was saying that I'm surprised that people that earn their living as professional dancers spend their recreation time dancing so enthusiastically."

The man raised his glass in a toast and smiled warmly. "To the dancer's soul. They like the reminder that dancing was meant to be fun. I was a dancer myself, you know."

Returning the toast, the Captain nodded. "You're quite talented. I saw you in New York when I was much younger."

"We were both much younger," the man chuckled with a grimace.

Kirk glanced over at the two men in white uniforms that had joined a poker game with his crew. "I'm surprised to see members of the Russian Navy with the dance company," he commented.

"Oh, yes," Anatolya acknowledged. "We almost always have one of them with us. Since we're traveling there are two so they can change off watches."

"What on they on watch for?" the Captain asked curiously.

The man shrugged. "I'm not their boss. I have enough work with my dancers." Anatolya's eyes drifted back to what had held his attention earlier and Kirk followed his gaze reluctantly.

Chekov was dancing with his wife. That Chekov was dancing was by no means unusual. Indeed, if there was music available the Security Chief could be counted on to be the first to find the room to dance and a partner to share the floor with. He was a good dancer: had even taught Chapel to dance when McCoy gave up after she broke his foot. Modern, ballroom...he enjoyed them all the same. Except... "Does Chekov slow dance at home?" he asked curiously.

"I'm sorry?"

"Chekov," Kirk repeated. "He won't slow dance on the ship. I was wondering if he slow dances while he's at home." There wasn't a question whether he was slow dancing now; any slower and they'd be standing.

"Maybe it's not a matter of where, Jim," McCoy observed as he joined them. "Maybe it's a matter of WHO." He gestured with his glass at the couple. "Maybe he reserves his slow dances for his wife."

"Hmph," the Captain grunted. "Noble of him."

"He's singing to her too," the Doctor added. "Take it from an old southern gentlemen, I can tell."

"He doesn't sing either," Kirk commented.

The Director's eyes widened. "Pavel doesn't sing?"

"Our Security Chief says Lt. Riley inflicts more than enough on the crew by himself," the Doctor informed him with a grin. "Chekov can always be counted on to think of others."

Their guest shifted, lines creasing his brow as his gaze shifted briefly from Chekov to the Captain. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment's hesitation. "I'm afraid I tire more easily than my company at my age. If you don't mind, I'm going to turn in for the night now."

"Of course," Kirk replied. "Do you need a guide?"

"No, no," the man insisted. "I left a trail of breadcrumbs."

The Captain smiled easily. "Good. Than have a restful evening."

Kirk watched as the Director paused to exchange a few words with Chekov and his wife, who had finally drifted off the dance floor. They made sense together, is what the Captain thought. Both the Security Chief and Tatiana were blessed with a natural charm that immediately put people at ease and drew people to their affable charm. Together, they generated an energy one could physically feel when near them: like static electricity crackling on your skin.

People were drawn to the subtle radiance of the couple and seemed to feed off their relationship.

"Have you taken to spying, Jim?" McCoy's voice drawled in his ear.

"Captains have no need to spy," he replied with ill-humor.

"Oh," his friend reflected. "I hadn't realized your interest was official in nature."

Kirk glanced sharply at the Doctor, but found himself met by warm blue eyes. McCoy indicated the couple that had been occupying the Captain's attention.

"My grandparents," he remarked.

The Captain reflected on the man's words a moment. "My Aunt's neighbors," he divulged his own thoughts, knowing exactly what the Doctor meant. "My grandparents weren't married that long."

Chekov and Tatiana had a natural rhythm between them, as though they had been married a thousand years and had moved beyond the realm of human trappings: moved into a melding of souls that sometimes occurred in the rarest of cases to extremely lucky people. When together, they finished each other's sentences and reacted seamlessly to each other's actions they didn't even see.

Chekov was more grounded, more sane when he was around her. His bursts of outlandish behavior seemed held in check simply by her presence.

"The concept that your perfect match is created at the same time you are exists in many cultures. They're like two jigsaw puzzle pieces," Kirk continued.

"There's a Russian word for it," Sulu interjected as he joined them. "I can never remember how to pronounce it, but it means 'two people who share the same soul'."

" 'Soulmates', in English," Kirk agreed.

"No," Sulu corrected. "Soulmates refers more to people who... 'get' each other. The Russian concept refers to one soul that literally inhabits two separate bodies: two people who are cojoined in their very essence."

Kirk continued to watch Chekov and his wife with pinched lips. What he didn't tell his companions, what he didn't admit to the Doctor, was that he had been spying on the couple. It had begun inadvertently. While in the gym early that morning, he had stormed into the pool room to stop the dangerous horseplay he'd clearly heard. The screams and laughter that filled the room were not coming from his crew, however. It was the Security Chief and his wife that were chasing each other around the wet tiled floors, pushing each other into the pool and dunking each other under the water.

The Captain had said nothing, nor had he revealed his presence to them. He had found them throughout the day and it was always the same. When alone, Chekov and Tatiana taunted and tormented each other, playing with the abandon only children usually knew. They seemed to thrive on each other's company, crave each other's presence.

"The way he enjoys her company," is what Kirk finally said aloud. "I'm surprised he's never talked about her. I'm surprised he treats his marriage so casually." He tried to control it, but even he heard the sour tone in his voice.

Sulu eyed the ship's commanding officer in thought a long moment. He shifted. "You know, they were married in St. Petersburg, Russia, on May 11th, Chekov's first year at the Academy. I was a third level cadet at the time, so I wasn't able to attend their wedding," he stated, his tone emphasizing the significance of the statement. Neither of Sulu's companions showed any understanding of what he was trying to say.

"They seem utterly devoted to each other," McCoy mused.

"Yes," Kirk agreed with ill-humor. "Now that she's here." Honestly, the situation enraged the Captain and he was having trouble hiding his feelings. "I thought, maybe, that our impetuous friend had married Tatiana on a childish whim and gotten over it as quickly as he usually does."

"You'd feel less betrayed if it was an embarrassing mistake Chekov simply hadn't corrected," McCoy commented, elaborating the Captain's thoughts out loud.

"Yes," Kirk admitted.

Sulu exchanged an uncomfortable glance with the Doctor. He shifted again. "Captain," he said tentatively. "He was only 17 when they got married and she's three years younger," he added.

This time, the significance of the Helmsmen's words were not lost on Kirk. His eyes narrowed instantly. "He married a fourteen year old?" he demanded irately.

"Well, they had known each other for two years."

"Two..." Kirk began, but forcefully clamped his mouth shut to gain control of his raging emotions. "Well, that explains a lot," he said tightly. "He had no choice: he had to marry her."

"Jim..."

"Bones!" the Captain snapped. "You have a daughter. You know exactly how you'd have reacted if you found out some boy had been molesting her since she was twelve!

"I know exactly the circumstances of Chekov's marriage," Kirk growled through clenched teeth, hazel eyes wild. "He got married with a shotgun to the back of his head and then ran away: hightailing it back to Starfleet to hide!"

Kirk spun away from them, unable to linger any longer in the casual camaraderie of the room while such base outrage consumed him.

"Doctor!" Sulu protested after the Captain's form disappeared into the corridor.

"What?" McCoy demanded irately. His mouth twitched, however, betraying that he understood the Helmsman's meaning.

"You're the ship's Chief Medical Officer, and Jim Kirk's friend," the Helmsman insisted. "You examined Tatiana: surely you know the truth! You have to tell the Captain!"

"Doctor-patient privilege!" McCoy blurted out in response. "Or is the notion of medical confidentiality entirely new to you? I can't violate a patient's privacy unless it directly affects ship's business."

"And you don't think this qualifies?" Sulu demanded.

"I don't see how it does."

Sulu straightened then, fixing his jaw solidly. "You know James Kirk considers his command team a family as much as co-workers. He feels Chekov betrayed his trust on a fundamental level and is not the man he thought he was. The Captain believes the Security Chief isn't even the kind of man Kirk wants around him, never mind the kind of man he'd entrust the lives of his friends and crew to.

"Go ahead and don't say anything to the Captain," he charged, dark eyes intense. "As long as you can believe that he's not going to transfer Chekov out of here at the first opportunity!

"That is ship's business, Doctor. You have to make Captain Kirk understand or the Security Chief will be of this ship so fast your head will spin."

McCoy's mouth twitched again, his only sign of agreement.

"Doctor," Sulu stopped him as he went to leave. "Remind the Captain that Chekov got married May 11th his freshmen year at the Academy."

"What difference does that make?"

"He'll know."


	5. Chapter 5

"What?" Kirk demanded when McCoy entered his cabin.

"You seem...upset," his friend commented.

"Is this your professional opinion?" the Captain rasped in response, emptying the glass in his hand neatly.

The Doctor watched him pace for a moment. "Jim, why don't you sit down?"

"You've logged your official medical concern. Is there something else I can do for you?"

"Yes," McCoy replied bluntly. "You can start judging your Security Chief's actions based on what you know about the man."

Kirk snarled, jamming his glass down on the desk. "Bones, she was twelve! I would have unloaded the shotgun into his head before he had the chance to say 'I do'."

"You can't honestly believe that Chekov–even at fifteen–would molest a twelve year old girl. Especially not Tatiana: you've seen how protective he is of her."

"Controlling, I think, is the more appropriate word. And fifteen year old boys...there's no telling what they're capable of."

"Jim," McCoy rasped. "You're talking about Chekov here. He came to us at twenty-one pre-packaged with his own suit of armor and white horse!"

"People can change," the Captain said fiercely.

The Doctor shook his head. "Not that fundamentally."

Kirk's jaw hardened, but he remained silent.

"May I sit down?" McCoy asked after a moment.

"Do I have a choice? You seem intent on staying."

The Doctor sighed as he took a seat. "Jim," he drew out carefully after a moment. "I'm currently Tatiana's Doctor and I've examined her. I can tell you without hesitation that Chekov has never touched her."

"We're talking about Chekov here, Bones. With all his charm he could have talked a twelve year old into doing almost anything he wanted: there wouldn't be any scars. Just because she didn't fight him doesn't make it any more moral. If anything, it makes his actions more insidious."

McCoy drummed his fingers on the desk top silently. "Sit down, Jim," he finally ordered.

Scowling at the Doctor for his no-nonsense tone, Kirk took a seat behind the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and took up a sarcastic, subordinate stance. "Satisfied?"

His long-time friend ignored the sarcasm and sighed heavily again. "Jim, I'm not saying that I have medical proof that Chekov never molested Tatiana. I'm saying that I have medical proof that Chekov's never even touched her."

The Captain's eyes widened in amusement at that. He unfolded his arms, leaning forward to rest them on the desk. A frozen, calculating smile crossed his lips. "Bones, I know twenty-third century medicine is quite exact, but the only thing you can tell me is that he hasn't touched her since we picked her up. You can't identify who her past partners have been."

"I can identify that she's never had any partners," McCoy said bluntly.

"Bones..." Kirk began in protest, but then shot a quick glance at the Doctor. His smile, and the gleam in his eyes, turned ludicrous. "Bones," he continued. "She's twenty-two. You can't honestly be saying..."

"I can be. Honestly."

Kirk closed his mouth abruptly. He began to say something, but then stopped again.

"Jim, Tatiana is a innocent as she looks."

"They've been married eight years!" the Captain protested.

The Doctor shrugged. "Not legally. The antiquated laws on Earth still require more than a statement of commitment to make a marriage legal. Chekov and Tatiana have never met that requirement." He folded his arms across his chest before continuing. "Sulu said the fact that they were married on May 11th of his freshman year at the Academy would mean something to you."

"May 11th while he was a first level cadet?" Kirk repeated curiously. "You're mistaken, Bones."

"No," the Doctor insisted. "I'm sure it was May 11th."

The Captain scowled and shook his head. "That's not possible. May is finals month at Starfleet Academy: it's a closed campus the entire time. No one is allowed to enter or leave the premises during May. To violate that rule is an automatic expulsion, no questions asked."

McCoy snorted. "Than one has to wonder how Chekov managed to leave to get married in St. Petersburg and still graduated, got a commission, and ended up as your Security Chief.

"I know the personnel records are the First Officer's responsibility, Jim, but maybe you should spend some time with them occasionally."

Kirk eyed him, bemused. "Seems to me that I put most of the content in them myself, Doctor."

"The people on this ship existed before they were posted to the Enterprise," McCoy commented. "Or hasn't this incident reminded you of that?"

The Captain stared at him a long moment. "Haven't you just broke several dozen confidentiality laws?"

The Doctor stood. "Ship's business," he commented. "You're ready to toss your Security Chief out on his ear."

Kirk glared at him, but McCoy's response was a grin.

"What are friends for?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Mr. Chekov," Kirk said in greeting when the man's cabin door finally opened.

"Yes, Captain?" he asked formally, straightening.

Hazel eyes took in the chess board on the man's desk and received a warm smile from Tatiana, who was seated behind it.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chekov," the Captain explained. "I wanted to talk to you for a moment. Do you have pressing business?"

The younger man hesitated, glancing back briefly at his wife. "No, Sir," he replied. "If you'll just allow me to get dressed."

"Of course," the Captain agreed amiably. Although Chekov was wearing his uniform, he had neither his jacket nor his boots on. Kirk paced away from the door as the Security Chief disappeared back into the cabin.

He reappeared in the corridor several minutes later in full uniform. Kirk's eyes caught sight of Sulu, now at the desk with Tatiana, in the brief moment the door was open. The Captain felt both chastised and vaguely reassured by the sight. Chekov wasn't even willing to leave her alone momentarily.

The Security Chief's overactive concern for his wife was entirely characteristic of the man's ingrained chivalry. Kirk immediately understood the duties of the two sailors that traveled with the ballet company: they were there to look after Tatiana. Kirk felt all too human for having let his emotions make such a quick, erroneous judgement of a man that the Captain now understood he knew better than he'd realized.

"Lieutenant," Kirk said as they began strolling down the corridor. "While I was in the shower this morning, out of the blue, I suddenly thought of Pierre LeClef. Isn't that strange?"

"It would be for me," Chekov commented. "I never much cared for redheads."

The Captain shot him a glare, but his irritation vanished as he recognized the familiar humor in his Security Chief's dark eyes which he routinely used to avoid uncomfortable situations. The man clearly knew the point of their conversation already. "LeClef was Valedictorian of your class at the Academy. I wonder what he's up to now," Kirk continued.

"Not much, I imagine," observed Chekov. "He's been dead almost a year now."

Kirk stopped. He said nothing for a moment. "I'm sorry."

"Silly virus," the Security Chief explained, pausing as well. "The Klingons didn't even have a fair shot at him. Space travel is not a safe career choice."

"No," the Captain agreed soberly and began to stroll again. "I don't think that it ever will be. Were the two of you close at the Academy?"

Chekov's jaw shifted and he chewed on his lip before answering, a range of emotions playing over his face. Discussing personal information was difficult for him, and his decision to trust Kirk was a visible one. "No, we weren't close. I didn't even know he existed until the end of senior year. He--well I've been told he didn't particularly care for me.

"We did meet after graduation," he continued. "I didn't sense the animosity that I'd been told about."

Kirk paused yet again, turning to face the younger man with intrigued curiosity. He was always finding unique ways to earn the Captain's respect. Chekov, at the very least, was a man of extreme modesty and deep character. The Captain wondered why he ever questioned the motives behind his unmentioned marriage. "You were always valedictorian at the Academy until the very end of senior year," Kirk drew out, the significance of his statement weighing in his tone.

"I recall being told that," Chekov said with a shrug. "I had tutors because my family traveled, so I was not familiar with the academic ranking system. Competing with others still seems at odds with the purpose of education to me."

"You like to learn," the Captain observed. In addition to Spock's pet research projects, the Security Chief still was still always involved in some sort of computer course work. "You weren't Valedictorian at graduation," Kirk added.

"No, Sir. I was second in my graduating class. LeClef scored better on senior finals than I did."

Hazel eyes narrowed as Kirk studied the Security Chief. "Pavel," Kirk intoned quietly. "You nearly failed an exam in a navigation course."

"Did I?" Chekov asked simply as he began moving down the corridor again. "I don't recall what happened."

"You gave it to him," the Captain said bluntly, strolling beside him. "You didn't care about being valedictorian and you found out he did, so you gave it to him. Navigation was the one course you knew so well that you could lower your grade without risking failure."

The young man's response was delayed by a determined increase in the pace of his strides. ""Maybe I just didn't want to give a speech," he commented drolly. "With my accent no one would have understood me anyway," he muttered thickly.

"That took character," Kirk observed. "I chose you from your graduation class based on the unwavering strength of character that you possess." The Captain withheld a smile at the visible shift in the man's features.

"Reviewing my Academy record seems both belated and irrelevant at this time," Chekov stated.

"Not to me," Kirk observed. "Your strength of character is what kept you at the Academy when you should have been expelled.

Withholding another smile, Kirk knew the actual problem. The quick-witted, talented younger officer found it utterly abhorrent to be recognized for something he had actually done. Chekov preferred to be an outgoing, funny and competent member of any group around him. Any notice of his unique proficiencies took observational skills and made him uncomfortable. He actually preferred criticism.

"The assessors have far too much time on their hands," Chekov sneered.

Kirk smiled. No matter how old he grew, the man stayed hearteningly the same. The character assessments he spoke of usually came largely from the Kobayashi Maru and similar tests: which the Security Chief successfully been excused from.

The Captain hesitated, then stopped as he watched Chekov increase the distance between them.

"Why didn't you tell me, Pavel?"

This stopped the Security Chief in his tracks, but he didn't turn. Finally, he spoke quietly, his accent thin. "I don't know." Silent for another moment, he continued. "I'm sorry, Jim."

Chekov pivoted then, soulful, dark eyes seeking his Captain's. "I'm sorry, Jim. You never asked. You always assumed because I was so much younger than you that I didn't have any life events worth reporting."

Quite the opposite was true, Kirk knew. Why he could still be surprised by anything in Chekov's past was unexplainable. "You didn't...you don't want anyone to know that you have anything of interest in your past," he said, approaching the younger man's stopped form. He heard the Security Chief chuckle sardonically.

"How do you explain this to someone?" Chekov asked. "I'm not sure there are adequate words to make it reasonable after you thought you knew me. I couldn't just come out and say 'I'm married', now could I?"

"You managed to make the Academy understand," Kirk observed as he leaned back against the bulkhead. "Frankly, with the Academy rules being what they are, I wouldn't have even gone back to face them. I would have just sent for my things to be shipped home."

Sheepishly, the Security Chief averted his eyes. "I was taught to take responsibility for my actions and to be answerable for my choices."

_Too well,_ thought Kirk. The man was ridiculously hard on himself. "Your choice proved the wise one," he observed aloud.

Hearing hesitating in the man's voice, Kirk knew they had encroached the wall of privacy that kept Chekov comfortable. He didn't press it. "You're a good friend," was what he said, and he didn't mean it flippantly. The Security Chief had a natural gift of making the people around him feel important. He noticed them and made them a priority.

"So are you going to tell me about your marriage?" Kirk knew if the man left him with scant details from his personnel record than the issue would linger between them like a rotting tooth. Personal conversations simply did not come up easily with Chekov.

"You obviously know it's not really a marriage," the Security Chief observed. "Tatiana and I became friends at the Chapman Clinic. After we went our separate ways, the ballet Director abused her. She was a ward of the theatre: a child with no one to protect her. Tatiana finally came to me for help when she was too ill to bear it anymore. I married her to remove her guardianship from the theatre. I was able to move her in with my parents so that someone who cared about her could take care of her."

"I know what your parents are like," Kirk reflected. "They've practically adopted Sulu. Why didn't you let them become her guardians, like you claim they are? I'm sure they were willing."

"Yes, they were," Chekov agreed. "But there wasn't time. To become the legal guardian of a minor you're not related to involves interviews, examinations, tests, investigations...it can take years."

"A simple marriage ceremony takes only five minutes," the Captain concluded.

The Security Chief looked mildly surprised. "No ceremony: we just signed a paper."

Still, at fourteen, she must have had needed permission from her guardian...the government."

"I didn't give them a choice," the man stated darkly.

"I still don't understand," Kirk continued curiously. "Why you didn't wait until June, when you wouldn't have risked your career."

"She would have died."

Kirk's eyes widened in curiosity. "That was a judgement call."

The Security Chief's lips drew into a fine line. "Have you ever seen a death-camp victim?" he asked.

The Captain straightened and started to speak, but knew from Chekov's somber tone that he wasn't exaggerating. Besides, the court-martial board had unconditionally endorsed cadet Chekov's actions at the time.

"You gave up your career and well, quite frankly," the Captain continued with a smirk, "pretty much any chance of dating in your home town. The court-martial board assessed that as a better test of character than anything they've ever come up with."

Chekov rolled his eyes. "They were a bit over dramatic."

Hazel eyes gleaming, Kirk's smile turned wry. "Something you'd be a good judge of, I imagine."

He received a glare in return.

The Captain stood up away from the wall, his eyes still shining as he studied the younger man. "So, you actually do think of her as your sister? No more? I mean, there's never been anything more between you?"

Kirk noticed the brief hesitation before the younger man's face drew into a dramatic, albeit charming, pout. "Sulu says she is 'the girl next door'."

Kirk stilled, eyeing Chekov cautiously as he mulled over the thought. The Security Chief's attitude toward Tatiana, and his actions, began to coalesce in the Captain's mind. "The girl next door?" he repeated.

Chekov's pout faded as he regarded his Captain patiently. "Yes. It's an American Urban Legend. You don't know it? Of course," he concluded, a tiny, warm smile creeping into his dark eyes as his accent grew thicker. "In this case, 'next door' is a bedroom, not a house."

"I know the legend," Kirk answered blandly. The play of emotions on the Security Chief's face as he spoke held his attention. It was clear to the Captain that the man's knowledge of 'the girl next door' legend was blissfully incomplete. Sulu had apparently failed to mention that one day the boy realizes the girl had grown up.

The way Chekov was naturally attuned to people created a natural diplomacy in the younger man, and he recognized instantly the imperfection in his commander's behavior. His eyes narrowed. "This is not accurate?" he asked suspiciously.

Kirk could already see the retribution against Sulu being plotted in the man's dark eyes. To be taken in by a scheming friend would be humiliating for Chekov, although it was not something anyone would put past Sulu.

"No," the Captain assured him. "Everyone knows about the girl next door: it's accurate," the Captain assured him. He flashed Chekov a warm, bright smile then for good measure. _Accurate,_ he was thinking, _although somewhat incomplete._

Chekov and Tatiana's childish tormenting of each other made sense to Kirk now: it was teenage foreplay. It was apparent that Sulu understood this...and that Chekov did not.

Kirk found that he was grinning like a hyena, his hazel eyes wild with delight.

Chekov's eyes were narrow and regarding the Captain suspiciously. His mind made the immediate, erroneous connection between Kirk's original question and delighted grin.

"Jim," he warned tonelessly. "There are three rules for dating that all men know. One: you don't date your relatives. Two: you don't date the relatives of your friends, and three: you don't go near the relatives of dangerous men." He stopped for a minute and fixed Kirk with a deadly look.

"Take your pick."


	7. Chapter 7

Chekov had never actually entertained the notion of marriage in even a passing moment. Now that he thought about it, he found that odd. It should have crossed his mind occasionally. He was an only child and the sole way his family's heritage and culture would be passed on was through him. He had grown up in a traditional culture where things like that still mattered.

Of course, technically, he was married. Chekov chewed on his lip as he thought about his marriage to Tatiana. Being 'married' had its advantages. He had also grown up in a culture where marriage and family were the backbone of the community: a requirement for society to work. A person did not take their place as an adult member of the community until they got married.

Only Pavel Chekov had cheated this requirement. He was married technically, so he could vote in Village Council meetings, stand judgment in trials, and–even better–no one bothered him about finding a wife. In fact, the Security Chief pondered, he was happy that it generally kept the young women away from him at home as well. When he was home on leave he wasn't interested in pursuing romantic interests. He could find romance while in space. While home he had precious little time to be with his family, his friends, and most especially, Tatiana.

Their relationship at first was dubious at best. He had been in pain, scared, and alone in a foreign world of strange adults and invasive medicine when he had met her. The sound of her young voice--with a Russian accent no less--had touched him with a thrill of hope he hadn't dared to feel since he'd been sent to the clinic. And he had tortured her for it.

He lurched out at her from around corners, behind doors, and inside closets. Hygiene products turned out to be adhesives or dyes. The creative changes he made to her food selections would have won awards anywhere else. Then, she suddenly fought back with a vehemence that gave the self-assured young man a sense of competition like he'd never had before.

Just when the virtual war against each other threatened to tear the fabric of the clinic's care for the other patients apart, however, the novelty of that particular game wore off. They had settled into blissfully playing every other game they could come up with together.

Pavel and Tatiana played every day far into the night: talking, laughing, tormenting until they collapsed spent and exhausted, more often than not without a voice left to speak with. He supposed now that he missed her more when they were together than not. Her presence made him aware of something missing--of some fundamental lack that seemed all too oppressing to him when she was near. Having her nearby, and yet not with him, was even worse. He was beginning to realize that this was a new game altogether.

At that thought, Chekov thrust his cheek onto his fist and petulantly studied the board in front of him for his next move.

"Ten minutes."

He blinked and looked up at Sulu, who sat across the desk from him. The Helmsman was bravely trying to give keep him occupied after he had been ejected–and banned–from the ballet company's practice. "What?" Chekov asked, confused.

"Ten minutes," Sulu repeated, a smile playing on his lips as his dark eyes regarded his friend. "It's taken you ten minutes of staring to realize you lost again. Pavel, you've just lost eight games of checkers in a row."

"Checkers?" he asked, straightening with a scowl. "Well, that explains it. I thought we were playing draughts."

"Same game," Sulu commented knowingly as he moved to reset the board. "So why are you sulking?"

"I am not sulking," the man retorted.

Grinning, the Helmsman shrugged. "Sorry. What are you thinking about?" he asked.

The Security Chief stared at the board between them, his eyes distant. Absently, he moved one of his pieces and let his fingers linger on its surface. "Hikaru," Chekov asked quietly. "When the men talk in the rec room…is it true?"

"Oh, hardly ever," the older man chuckled with a wry grin. "What topic in particular?" He shooed Chekov's hand off the board and moved his own piece.

Wide brown eyes met Sulu's. "What it's like to be a sixteen-year old boy."

Sulu burst out laughing, his dark eyes sparkling. "Ah, that blessed period of raging hormones and independent physical activity. 'The best time of your life'," he concluded. "Now, if teenage boys believed that age-old line, none of us would hang around to grow into men, would we?"

"So it's true then?"

"You remember," the Helmsman insisted with a curious grin. The younger man fully enjoyed the half-drunken revelry that was known to spring up late at night in any given rec room, but Chekov rarely added his own stories. He was too private for that, Sulu knew.

"No, I don't," Chekov answered tonelessly. He waited for Sulu's to meet his gaze before he continued. "I was never a sixteen-year old boy."

Dark eyes steady on his friend's, Sulu leaned forward after a moment. "Well, now there's a neat trick."

"I spent that year in the Chapman Clinic," the Security Chief said soberly.

Silently, Sulu jumped two men. He fingered the pieces he removed in his fingertips for a long moment. "Malyenki," he intoned quietly. "I know how hard it was for you to relearn to walk: but that doesn't just erase the time from your life. That horrible year is part of who you are.

"Besides," he added carefully. "That was almost ten years ago."

The Security Chief studied the board in silence, his fingers touching the pieces tentatively.

"Pavel," Sulu ventured, somewhat relieved that the man hadn't reacted with the violent outburst he'd expected. "I'm pretty sure there are rules, even in draughts, against making your own men kings."

The younger man seemed to come back to the present and offered a cryptic smile. "There are things about my stay at the clinic that I never told you, Hikaru," he said. There were so many things only Tatiana knew about him, he thought: so many things they had shared and gone through that could never be explained adequately to anyone else.

Sighing slightly, Sulu moved a piece. "Even best friends don't know everything about each other, Malyenki: they don't have to. Friends just understand each other."

Chekov moved one of his own men. "Hikaru, do you remember when you cut your arm this spring?" the Security Chief asked suddenly in an apparent change of subject.

Sulu jumped two more of Chekov's men and growled low in his throat. "That type of pain is hard to forget. It wasn't even that bad a cut but I severed a nerve."

"Yes," the younger man agreed as he moved a checker. "The human nervous system is electrical. Doctors can repair the damage, but the body still has to take the time to remake the wiring connections on its own, if it even can. Until it does, a severed nerve is like an exposed, open circuit."

The Helmsman shuddered dramatically and nodded, moving another piece on the board. "I remember. Every time anything touched my arm it was like being electrocuted. It was unbearable."

"The accident severed the nerves in my leg, that's why I couldn't walk," Chekov observed quietly, his somber eyes seemingly mesmerized by the board before him.

Sulu stilled, dark eyes staring at his friend as the implications of his words settled on him. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I never realized what you really went through."

Shrugging, Chekov made a broad gesture of dismissal and pushed a circular piece forward. "Long time ago," he agreed without looking up. "The pain was…" He stopped then, his dead, dark and averted eyes bringing a heavy silence between the men. Sulu's eyes rested on him knowingly and waited.

"Hikaru," Chekov said heavily. "Dr. Bob invented a drug cocktail to deaden the nerves while they healed. It basically deadened all my nerves. I couldn't feel anything," the younger man observed with another shrug, finally looking up at his friend.

"You must have had to be careful not to get hurt," Sulu marveled, but then stopped. He realized that he hadn't understood what his friend was saying. Frowning in thought, the Helmsman eyed him. " You mean you couldn't feel...anything?"

"Chemical castration," was Chekov's explanation. "Of course," he added with a sly grin, "It didn't affect my interest: which, happily, the nurses appeared completely unaware of."

"Pavel Andrievich!" Sulu burst out, leaning over the board with a grin. "You used your medical innocence to prey on those unsuspecting angels of mercy!"

Whatever reaction he was expecting, Sulu was rewarded with an outright giggle.

The Helmsman tapped the board in thought. "That explains," he mused aloud, "Why nothing ever happened between you and Tatiana at the clinic: nothing could, and it set a precedent."

The younger man scowled again in indignation. "She was only twelve at the time!"

Sulu's dark eyes held his friend's gaze in a solid challenge. "She's not twelve anymore, Malyenki."

The Security Chief squirmed visibly, his face flushing with color as he lapsed into silence.

His best friend watched the change curiously, a sense of victory beginning to churn within him and he understood for the first time that it really had a taste. It was a good taste. "Why are you suddenly telling me about the drugs now?" he asked suspiciously.

Chekov pushed at the checker pieces randomly. Sulu was the one person in Starfleet that he felt close enough with to talk about practically anything. "Hikaru," he drew out without raising his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me about the girl next door?"

The older man stilled and cleared his throat. "I remember telling you about the girl next door," he commented absently.

Crossing his arms, Chekov rested them on the desk and leaned forward. "Yes, you told me: like the poet told everyone about the riders that alerted Boston to the British invasion."

Sulu's jaw hardened. This was what Chekov's life had been before Starfleet—what his parents life was. As folklorists, they collected tales and legends, flushed them out, added the history, and made them count. Despite his numorous manipulations of history for the sake of humor, it mattered to Chekov that people knew that Paul Revere had not made the longest ride that important night in America. It was surprising that it actually took this long for him to look up the 'Girl Next Door' legend.

"Do you stop the story before Hanzel and Gretel escape from the witch?" the Security Chief demanded in irritation.

Taking a deep breath, the Helmsman stretched out his back. "Of course not, but it's a matter of relativity. What difference does it make that the love of friends turns romantic in that legend? It's not as though it relates to anything." Hesitating significantly, he fought back a wry smirk and fixed his eyes on his friend, a knowing glint shining in the dark depths of his eyes. "Does it?"

The Security Chief's fingers curled into fists slowly. "I don't remember when Tatiana wasn't part of my life. She's always there, always present in my mind, judging what I do like a second conscience. I know it's idiotic, but sometimes I say or do things just because I know that she would knock me upside the head for it."

"She's your best friend," Sulu observed quietly. Although the younger man generally reserved the term for the Helmsman, it was only because his relationship with Tatiana was so far beyond the confines of an ordinary friendship. An ingrained link connected their souls.

Chekov nodded deeply in agreement. "I suppose she is my best friend. I didn't realize how important she was in my life until…Hikaru, when I thought she was gone, that I may never see her again: I went dead inside. When I finally saw her alive, unhurt," he rushed on breathlessly. "I just lost my mind.

"Never have I felt anything like it before in my entire life. I didn't ever want to let go, to stop…"

"Good God Almighty!" Sulu burst out with a gleeful grin. "You kissed her! You actually kissed Tatiana!"

Chekov made a growl low in his throat, the sound echoing with the hollowness of guilt. "Yes, I kissed her. I didn't intend to, but it just…happened...somehow. Now, my body has a mind of its own. I can't seem to think of anything else!"

Sulu leaned forward, resting his cheek on his hand, dark eyes wild. "Are your thoughts…I mean, do they only involve kissing her?" he asked eagerly.

"Stop that!" Chekov roared.

The Helmsman grinned. "I can't help it. This is like the news of the century--soap opera style. Wait till your father finds out his son is incestuous!"

"Don't you even think of telling him!" the younger man ordered in horror.

A snicker met his words. "Oh, like he doesn't find out everything anyway. One look at the guilt in those big Russian eyes of yours…" He straightened, dropping his hand and laughing out loud as the emotion he spoke of swept over the younger man's features. "Pavel Andrievich!"

Chekov sank into a deep pout of over powering self-recrimination. "Hikaru," he said hoarsely, consumed by the need to confess his soul's evil secrets. "The things I've been doing. Unspeakable things. Slow dancing...brushing her hair..." he exclaimed in a rush of guilt-ridden horror.

Sulu smirked. By his cultural standards, Chekov had just admitted to molesting Tatiana. "Malyenki," he drawled. "That's what men do when they're pursuing a woman."

"I am not pursuing…!" the Security Chief retorted, but his body betrayed him as deep color washed into his cheeks.

The older man's blistering laughter interrupted him.

Chekov wilted, overcome with self-recrimination. "What do I do?" he pleaded desperately, shoving his fists against his temples as though the action could regain control of his spinning mind and out of control body.

Standing, Sulu tapped his fingers on the desktop before he turned to move away. "You're in love with her. Do what men in love do."

"She's my sister!" the Security Chief protested in horror.

Sulu hesitated at the end of the desk, and without turning, he observed quietly: "She is no more your sister than I am your brother."

"If I tell her, she'll hit me!"

The Helmsman smiled. "It won't be the first time."

"What if she doesn't…What if she does and then…I can't lose her, Hikaru," the young man said plaintively. "I can't risk destroying what we have. I need her."

Sighing, Sulu turned and gazed at his friend with the condescending affection of an older brother. "Malyenki, change is the very nature of life. You don't have the same relationship with Tatiana that you did while you were in the clinic, any more than we have the same relationship we did while we were at the Academy.

"The relationship between the two of you is going to change even if you do nothing. The decision is going to be made whether you choose to have any input into it or not. You have the opportunity now to decide what direction that change is going to take.

Chekov dropped his hands and shook his head fiercely. "I can't risk not having her there when I go home."

"You can't stop change, Pavel," Sulu repeated. "What makes you think she's going to stay with your parents forever, anyway?"

"What do you mean by that? Where would she go?" Chekov demanded hotly.

The Helmsman shrugged. "She's an adult, has a good job, friends, a life of her own...eventually I suppose that she'll move into her husband's home."

The Security Chief's face went pale.

Sulu smirked. "Odds are that she's going to marry someone, Malyenki. You can just hope that her husband doesn't mind her spending all her time with you when you go home on leave. If that's alright, do nothing." He stopped then, never having seen a human face as ghost-white as Chekov's had become.

"Stop sulking," the older man advised. "And decide what you want."

The younger man chewed on his lip, silently beginning to pile the checkers with great methodical care. "What if she doesn't feel the same way?" he mused aloud, almost to himself. "What if I drive her away?"

The Security Chief could feel Sulu hesitate behind him as he moved to leave. "Did she kiss you back?" the Helmsman asked.

"I don't know," Chekov muttered.

"Yes, you do. She let you brush her hair. Tatiana's not an idiot, she knew what you were doing. Talk to her," he urged.

Chekov shifted uncomfortably.

Sulu moved toward his own cabin, but hesitated again when he reached the bathroom door. He turned back to eye his friend. "Pavel Andrievich," he observed soberly. "I have a sister and the last time I took a bath with her, I was three."

Chekov's head snapped up, his eyes widening in horror. "I never…! Who told you such a thing!"

The older man merely grinned.

"We play war games with my boats!" the Security Chief spat out, his hands trembling as the Helmsman disappeared.

"You could wear swim suits," came the droll comment before the door slid shut between them.


	8. Chapter 8

Chekov moved cautiously into the darkened room, trying to adjust his eyes quickly so that he didn't trip over anything unexpected. He stayed along the bulkhead where the shadows clung and absorbed his figure into their nothingness.

The lights were off in what had been turned into a makeshift practice studio for the members of the ballet company fit enough to work. Their normal days could stretch into fifteen hours of grueling work. Finally, however, the dancers were gone for the night and the large, empty room was dim and silent. The only illumination came from the starlight flowing through two wide viewscreens stretching along the far bulkhead.

In the center of the dark room's floor a lone figure danced, bathed by the silence around her. She danced with utter abandon, leaping and spinning to strains of music that only she could hear. The tatters of her dress swirled around her legs as she moved, their ends twisting and clinging with every graceful, powerful motion. Starlight caught the tatters and danced upward on their edges until the entire dress seemed touched by fire.

He watched her from his perch, so mesmerized by her graceful movements that the breath crushed from his chest. You did not watch Tatiana Demidova dance; you were absorbed by her overwhelming, hypnotically unaffected perfection. Every step was a stunning display of technical virtuosity. Her seemingly effortless display of the nuts and bolts of the craft had a clear, correct, classical line for anyone who knew how to see such things: such people who would thus know immediately where she had trained and still worked.

Given all that, what drew people to her performances was neither her crisp natural talent nor her brilliant technical skill. Crowds came enmasse to see her because she danced with sheer, unadulterated joy: infusing a life-giving energy into her performances that had not been seen since the days of Maria Pavlova. Such a dancer could sweep one into a blinding rush of primordial emotion only elusive, true art produced.

As he watched her dance, he realized that in her recent performance tapes she had not been so completely vibrant.

She stilled after a moment and absently began doing dance exercises.

"Do people here know why we call you Malyenki?" she wondered aloud, her words drifting quietly out into the dark.

"Uhura thinks it's because I'm short," he remarked, knowing it would be futile to pretend he wasn't there.

He could see her easy smile flash in the dark. "Yes, Little One," she acknowledged with a teasing note in her voice. They both knew the nickname had nothing to do with his size. It was his temperament 'Malyenki' referred to: the single-minded, fierce determination that possessed him and the unwavering fortitude he had in carrying out his stubborn decisions.

"You are, truly, your father's son," she agreed, for that likeness was what the nickname referred to. "What is the English word?" she puzzled aloud to herself as she strolled away. "Ah," she concluded, stopping to turn her head and peer back at him with a sparkle in her eyes. "Stalker."

"I am not a stalker," he retorted with indignation. Neither of them made any objection to labeling his father that, however. "It worked for him," he muttered. His mother claimed she only married the man because it was far simpler in the end than prosecuting him.

"Always there, somewhere, lingering about…" She smiled and made several leisurely pirouettes, stepped toward him, then did it again.

"Tatiana," he intoned quietly. "I'd like to show you something."

She gracefully lifted her leg, placed her ankle on his shoulder, and leaned into it. Their faces came so close to touching he could feel the heat from her lips on his. Eyes seeking out his, she stared quietly into their dark, smoldering depths. Pavel never called her by her real name. "Show me something?" she repeated thoughtfully. "I work with dozens of nearly naked men daily: I don't think you have anything new for me to see."

He grinned despite himself. Grasping the elegant ankle lingering by his ear, he slowly ran his hand down the outside of her firm leg. People didn't think of dancers as athletes, but they were the best conditioned humans in existence. They should send ballet dancers into space after Klingons, he thought with amusement at the image that appeared in his mind. His hand tumbled the tattered dress down toward her waist. He felt less than honorable, but the delicious warmth that swept from his hand and into his body so distracted him that he didn't care.

"Tiana, you are a finely cut, polished diamond," he whispered, surprised at the hoarseness that choked the words.

Bright blue eyes sparkled, regarding him with patient warmth. "Baryshnikov said that about Kirkland," she commented.

He found his fingers tightening on her deliciously hard thigh. An impish grin flashed across his face. "Why come up with something new when good material is already available?"

She laughed and slapped his cheek playfully. "Wicked boy."

"Can we walk?" he asked.

Both of them had gone for a period without the ability to walk, and together they had fought to regain that basic skill. The simple art of taking a walk had a treasured meaning for them lost on most people.

"Let me change," she said, dropping her foot to the floor and moving to the other end of the room.

He paced thoughtfully in a small area, hands clasped loosely behind his back while he waited. Catching sight of her, he stopped where he stood. She had peeled the dance costume away and was giving herself a sponge bath. Chekov felt his chest tighten and he edged into a better position to watch her.

He didn't know what he was enjoying more: watching her or the guilt that came with it. Being Russian was a curious existence, indeed, he thought.

"Do you want a photo?"

"No, I'm fine."

A bemused shine in her blue eyes, she slipped back into her coverall and boots, apparently unconcerned by his voyeurism.

"All set," Tatiana informed Chekov as she rejoined him.

He interlaced his fingers with hers, led her out the door and walked her silently through the ship's corridors. "You have body hair," he said bluntly after a moment.

"Yes: hell of a time to go into puberty. Of course, that's nothing new for you."

"Very funny." The Security Chief chewed on his lip in obvious discomfort as color flushed into his cheeks. A very poor joke he often repeated was that not enough delipitory existed for him to be a dancer.

"Tiana," he continued in a sudden rush. "Ballet dancers don't have body hair."

A smile flowed over her pure features. She shrugged luxuriously as they walked. "Technically, it's a matter of choice and I have long costumes for this ballet."

"And if the next has short costumes again?" he puzzled as her apparent strategy wandered through his mind. "And then the next one long? Won't it itch...?"

Tatiana laughed: a light, merry sound that bubbled on the air and trailed off down the corridor. "You're so detail oriented. Don't worry."

"But, won't it?" he persisted curiously.

She met his next question with silence, her eyes fixed on the deck as they walked along. "Malyenki," she finally drew out quietly. "We need to talk."

He felt his hand grow cold. His mind had been possessed all day with the topic of his feelings and recent behavior towards her. He had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times over, but never had he envisioned Tatiana being in control of it. It wasn't surprising that she was a step ahead of him, however.

"This is my last ballet," she continued before Chekov could respond. "I've resigned my position at the Maryinsky."

Chekov stopped dead in his tracks, taken by surprise at the completely unexpected words.

"Tatenka! You love to dance!"

Turning to face him, she nodded. "Yes, I love to dance, Malyenki: I always will." Her smile became soft and sad. "The stress of performing , however, is too much for me now." She hesitated, so unlike her to admit such things. "It hurts," she said quietly.

The silence became a great well within him, consuming his heart and mind until his soul itself began to weep. He could see in her eyes the raw truth about how much pain she'd been in lately and understood why her recent performances seemed downright hollow.

"I'm not going to tell anyone how to live their lives—I've barely got control of my own," he said mechanically. It was his father's mantra and it came back to haunt him now. How could Chekov burst out with the protest he wanted to, knowing her as well as he did?

Ballet was not an art in Russia: it was a religion. It was taught to every child in the first years of school—if not earlier--as a prerequisite to all athletics and anyone with any talent was sent on to specialized classes. Nearly every parent in the country secretly hoped their child would be one of the lucky few with natural enough gifts to be accepted at one of the old, traditional theatre boarding schools.

Tatiana's father, a widower, had enrolled her at the Maryinsky Theatre's school when she was five. He had died only a few years later himself. It was hardly unusual for a student to be a ward of the Theatre where they studied. Except in Tatiana's case, it had left her open and vulnerable, with no idea how to protect herself or deal with the universe outside the world of ballet.

Ballet was unnatural and its dancers endured through bruised and broken toes; shredded tendons, ligaments and muscles; twisted ankles; and cracked, broken and splintered bones. The good schools took care of their students and taught them to protect themselves while teaching the craft itself. It had not always been so, however.

Laws and regulations protected dancers now, but until Pavel Chekov's recent rage, they relied heavily on the trustworthiness of those involved. Sometimes the evil in man's hearts still found their way back to past horrors. The former Director of the Maryinsky had seen the fire in Tatiana Demidova immediately and set out to make himself the owner of the finest ballerina in centuries—by selling his soul and sacrificing her in the long run. She had been worked to exhaustion and kept working through serious injuries even as a child. Set onto her toes at too young an age so that her splintering shins needed repeated shirring up by medical staff, a serious injury at age twelve should have Tatiana's career.

No sane person would have expected her to dance again when she finished rehab, but the Director had put her on the stage again anyway. The Director used medical subterfuge to keep her small and trained her body to reject much of the sustenance she did take in. She was physically on death's doorstep when she had appeared at Pavel's dorm room.

He cleared his throat. Dancer's bodies burned out in their thirty's if they were taken care of, long before if they were not taken care of: and hers had been brutalized. Of course it made perfect since that she was exhausted and ready to retire at age twenty-two. It didn't have to have been that way.

"I'm sorry." The words came out in a soft caress as hot tears spilled out of his wide eyes and onto his cheeks.

They stood there a long time and she serenely watched as the tears continued to stream silently down his face. He blinked several times in shame. Not for crying, for Russian men were at ease with their emotions, but for the instant thoughts that had prompted the tears. He cried not for her, but for his Motherland that had just lost a national treasure. Worse yet, he cried because of his own unreasonable guilt for not having prevented this situation to begin with.

She knew him well enough to clearly recognize the tears as self-loathing. When she finally decided he'd indulged himself enough, she reached up to gently wipe the tears away. "Who told you that you were put in this universe to make everyone else happy? You can't possibly be responsible for my childhood," Tatiana commented, knowing from experience what he was thinking.

That stopped the tears instantly, for it hit too close to home. He had been hardwired by extensive travels in his childhood among an unending variety of cultures to ease tense situations. No one taught him such a preposterous thing, but still, something inside him felt duty bound to be funny and happy: to make everyone around him comfortable. Tatiana knew exactly how to shut down the over inflated ego one necessary to support such an idea and a sheepish smile tugged at his lips. She always knew exactly how to mange his moods.

The smile faded and, brown eyes full of pain, he reached out and touched her soft cheek. "I'm sorry," he said again. "You so love to dance, Tiana. It was your dream."

"I had my dream," she responded, turning her head to kiss his fingertips still lingering on her face. "Now, I have time for new dreams."

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "May the Lord God Almighty grant you peace and happiness," he murmured. It was obvious her decision was a well-thought out one and if she had waited until now to mention it to him, she had certainly discussed it at length with his parents.

"Do you want to teach?" he asked curiously.

"What I want..." she hesitated again. It was Pavel she was talking to, she had to remind herself. They knew each other better than was usual for two people and they had easily confided things to each other usually left unsaid. "What I want now is a life."

"A life?" Chekov repeated.

"Yes," she insisted. "I want a normal life: it's something I never had the luxury of, Malyenki.

"I want the chance to sleep late, go horseback riding, spend hours mushroom picking, or lounge all day in the banya."

It was what they did together when he was as home on leave, Chekov thought. Even then, however, she still had to fit grueling private dance practices in on her days off from the theatre. It occurred to him now how regimented and colorless her chosen career had made her daily life.

Crystalline blue eyes sparkling, she smiled wickedly. "I want to gorge myself on chocolate, Malyenki." Her smile softened then and she added quietly: "I simply want the chance to be a woman finally."

The words settled heavily on Chekov, who found himself painfully at a loss for words of his own in answer to such a preposterous statement.

Her wide blue eyes warmed as she heard his argument despite his inability to voice it. "Pavel Andrieivich, you have taught me to love our culture and appreciate the great value there is in the basic art of being a woman.

While modern humans may have thought a woman's role in their primitive culture as demeaning or limiting, those who understood knew quite the opposite was true. The Russian culture was secretly a matriarchal one at heart. The family, the household, the community, all relied on a woman's basic strength, skill and wisdom to direct it and keep it functioning.. The men of the community knew full well who was really in control and all of their blustering to the contrary fooled no one but outsiders.

"I want to learn to run a household, Pavel," Tatiana explained. "I want to learn from your mother how to sew, garden, cook..."

"Good God Almighty! Don't let my mother teach you to cook!" Chekov exclaimed in mock horror.

She laughed merrily again. "Perhaps we can learn to cook together," she suggested happily.

He shook his head vehemently. "The last time she tried to learn to cook we got food poisoning!"

Tatiana's only answer was a continued smile, warm understanding shining in her eyes. She didn't need to say anything.

She had the heart and temperament of a traditional woman, so it was no surprise how thoroughly Tatiana had taken to traditional Russian culture. Tatiana's strength and fiery soul gave her a natural, instinctive ability to handle such basic, overwhelming responsibilities. She certainly knew exactly how to control Pavel Chekov.

He stepped closer to her then, slipping his arms around her and gathering her against him. Chekov stood holding her with a warm, subtle swell of contentment. The physical reaction that he was prepared for did not happen: nor did it feel like he was holding his little sister. The feeling that filled him was something completely different–something more profound.

Lord, she smelled like home.

Tatiana sighed softly as he nuzzled her face against his shoulder. "I promise I'll still dance for you."

Shaking his head, Chekov held her at arms length and waited until her gaze me his soulful brown eyes. "No. Promise me that you'll still dance for yourself."

She smiled with affection and took his hand in hers again. "You wanted to show me something?"

"Yes, it's right up here."


	9. Chapter 9

She smiled with affection and took his hand in hers again. "You wanted to show me something?"

"Yes, it's right up here."

Chekov led her up the corridor and into the darkened room that was their destination. He quickly caught her hand, preventing her from reaching the light switch. "No lights," he coaxed.

"Oh, my word," she breathed as her eyes swept over the room. "This is your lounge, Malyenki!" Dropping his hand, she strolled curiously into the midst of the spacious room.

Chekov smiled sheepishly. "I hardly think it could be considered my own personal lounge."

Tatiana cast a winsome glance over her shoulder, eyes sparkling as she looked back at him. "Well, Captain Kirk refers to it as 'Pavel's Lounge,'" she informed him brightly.

The Security Chief blinked, straightening. Very few people came to this viewing lounge that Chekov loved, but the fact that the Captain had given it his name came as a surprise.

He watched Tatiana wander about the room. On the right, padded benches ran the length of the room. The lowest bench sat in the middle of the room and row after row followed behind it, raising bleacher-style until they met the back wall. Some five feet in front of the first bench ran a waist-high railing on the left of the room. Just a foot in front of the rail, the floor ended abruptly.

Therein lay the unique configuration of this observation lounge. The floor ended some six feet before the outside bulkhead: a window that swept the entire expanse of the room. The view dropped down beneath the floor, giving occupants of the room the giddy feeling of being suspended in space.

Chekov moved to the middle of the dim room and folded himself down onto the floor, leaning his back against the first bench. This was, in fact, the only actual window on the entire ship. Chekov preferred it to the abundant adjustable view screens that the rest of the crew favored. Kirk apparently knew that.

The Security Chief bent his knees up and patted the floor between them. "Come sit down," he encouraged.

Turning, she regarded him with the amusement due any errant child. "You're in uniform, Pavel Andrievich."

"Come have a seat," he repeated.

"It's my understanding that officers in uniform don't belong sprawled on the floor."

"I'm not sprawled. Besides, I have it on good authority the security monitors are turned off in here at the moment," the Security Chief divulged. "No one will ever know."

A wicked smile flashed over Tatiana's face as she moved over and seated herself between his thighs. "You're diabolical," she insisted, wrapping her arms around his muscular, upturned legs and settling back against him.

Clearing his throat quietly, Chekov subtly edged his hips backwards, away from the warm pressure of her body. It didn't change anything.

The firm touch of her back nestled against his chest sent an overpowering rush of heat through his entire being and gripped him with a physical response that was intense. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling for a long moment. Moving hadn't changed his body's eager reaction: he only hoped it hid it from her.

Chekov sighed happily and, opening his eyes, ran his hands down her firm arms. When their hands met on his shins, he pushed his fingers into hers, entwining them in a contented and warm union. A subtle shudder echoed back into his body and Chekov wondered which of them was trembling.

Reaching forward to clasp her hands had brought his chest up tight against her back and his face atop her shoulder. With a devilish glint in his dark eyes, he pushed his face deep into the thick waves of her free-flowing, soft amber hair. Unmarried women in the traditional parts of Russia usually twisted their hair into a single braid to prevent men from doing such things. Tatiana often wore a braid across her crown, but Chekov rarely saw her long hair tied up unless she was working or sleeping.

"Sir, you take liberties," she commented, glancing back to eye him darkly.

Color flushed into his cheeks and he pushed his face deeper into her hair with an outright giggle. He often took such liberties with his 'sister', he realized, and she'd never even commented on it before. His grin turned wild. Sulu was right, he thought.

Chekov turned his head then, brushing his cheek down the length of her hair as he breathed in deeply. "Tiana," he ventured aloud. "Why do you always smell like cherry blossoms?"

She scowled at him and looked away.

There was no doubt in his mind that's what she smelled like. Pavel Chekov loved the smell of cherry blossoms. Beneath the cherry trees his father and he had cuddled at night, the man teaching him the constellations and folk tales of his wild Motherland. They had laid in the cherry orchards and chatted so long that many times they woke up the next morning still curled beneath the trees. Together, his father and he had searched the cherry orchards in search of the elusive Firebird, and it was to the cherry orchards that Pavel had snuck away with his first girlfriends.

Probably because of that, Pavel Chekov more than loved the smell of cherry blossoms and Tatiana was the only person that knew that.

"Tiana," he whispered thickly, kissing her neck through her hair. "You know the smell of cherry blossoms…" he still hesitated when it came to confessing it out loud to her again. "You know it turns me on. So why is it," he persisted hoarsely, "that you always smell like cherry blossoms?"

He watched carefully the silent play of emotion across her flower-petal soft cheek. Knowing it was the only response he was going to get, Chekov bit back a smirk and pulled his hands back along her arms. He slipped them between his legs and wrapped them around her. The hug caused such a physical ache in him there was no way that she was not aware of if. Tatiana made no acknowledgment of it, so after a moment he shifted his hands, edging them upward impolitely.

Tatiana lurched up to her feet and plunged toward the rail. Jaw set and knuckles brazenly white, she stood gripping the rail and staring fiercely out at the stars. He followed her and grinned when he caught sight of her face. "Tatiana Demidova, I've never seen you blush before!"

"You blush enough for both of us," she replied tightly.

True, he thought, his grin turning shy. The thought of apologizing briefly crossed his mind, but he didn't regret his actions. After having thought over their relationship the entire day, he was relatively certain that she didn't either.

Chekov edged closer to her and let his thigh brush against hers.

Crimson faced, she jerked away from him and glared back at the stars pointedly.

While he appreciated the entire package, she knew that he got a particular thrill out of a great set of legs. He grinned broadly, charmed by the deeper blush he had caused.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" he asked in a soft whisper as he let one finger brush her hair away from her face and back over her shoulder. Truth be told, he hadn't realized it himself until he saw her on the planetoid. The awkward teenager he had known was downright uncomfortable in her own skin and petrified of strangers that showed any interest in her. She had blossomed into a self-assured young woman who handled the press and public with an amazing gentleness and sensibility. Her natural, regal grace and charm made her appearance at formal balls a showplace for the Russian Federation.

Chekov had admired how she had grown as a person, but he had never noticed that the radiance of her pure character now shown in an adults face. How he had remained so blissfully ignorant for so long was a mystery to him.

"My parent's influence had been good for you," he commented affectionately. It was not only true for their three children–Pavel, Tatiana and Hikaru–but of everyone they touched.

She twisted around to face him then, staring at him incredulously. "Your parents?"

He stilled immediately, but could not find the horror he had obviously committed when he searched his mind. "Yes," he repeated more carefully. "My parents."

She smiled tolerantly. "They're wonderful, Pavel, but it was someone else who first let me know there was a whole person inside of me that mattered regardless of any talent. Someone so devoted to me that he gave up his dreams to save my life."

Chekov blinked, shifting in discomfort. "I didn't give up anything and it wasn't devotion, Tiana. You needed a medical doctor and someone to look out for you," he insisted.

Tatiana shook her head with a wry smile. "Yes, and I apparently needed lessons to ballroom and folk dance, to ride a horse and bike, to drive an auto and troika, and to play and sing fold songs. Let us not forget the culture, literature, history and language lessons…or the bodyguards."

"They're not bodyguards!" the Security Chief blurted out in protest, but it did nothing to hide the deep crimson color in his face. The embarrassing list of his glaringly obvious behavior caught his breath in his chest, and she hadn't even mentioned his steady stream of lavish gifts. How could anyone not have known how he really felt about her all this time?

"They're not body guards, they're just escorts," he alleged thickly, resting his hand on the rail and kneading it into a fist. "I don't think you should be…" _wandering about alone, driving yourself, carting your own baggage..., _was what he thought, but the mere words in his mind horrified him. It couldn't be worse: it couldn't possibly be worse. He waited for her to slap him in self-righteous indignation. She always knew his thoughts even before he did.

When she didn't, he said: "I didn't mean to imply that you weren't able to take care of yourself. I just thought you…"

"Shouldn't have to," she finished sedately, her eyes warm with toying affection. "You treat me like a princess, Malyenki." She paused and tapped her fingers absently on the rail. "Women like that feeling—even the ones who don't admit it." It was a daring thing to confess to a man, but there had never been any boundaries between them.

Chekov studied her delicate features a moment in silence. He edged closer slowly and then leaned down: but as the warmth of her face brushed his cheek, she turned back to stare at the stars.

His chest tightened with a flush of heat and he swallowed his disappointment with difficulty. He immediately moved closer again until his chest was touching her arm. Slipping his hand across her back, Chekov leaned around the front of her.

She turned away, looking down demurely at the deck to her left.

"Tiana," he said in frustration. "I'm trying to kiss you."

"Yes," she acknowledged flatly. "I'm inexperienced: not stupid."

"You didn't object on the planet." When she didn't reply, he continued huskily. "I need to be close to you, Tiana."

She rolled her eyes with great drama. "Pavel Andrievich, what you need is a girlfriend. You haven't had one since Sara a year ago."

"I didn't want a new girlfriend," he admitted. His last breakup had been a particularly sound wake-up call, he thought. "I have never made a more sensible decision: it gave me time to think about my life."

"Yes, well we know how difficult it is for you to think, after all."

Chekov sighed heavily. "Having a girlfriend here is too difficult. I'm tired of the effort it takes."

Turning back to look at him, Tatiana's bright blue eyes were sympathetic, not judgmental. "Romantic relationships are too much work?" she repeated, intrigued.

He nodded slowly, his dark eyes somber. He'd never admitted his decision to anyone else. To anyone else it would have made him sound...spoiled. "Either I have to pretend I'm from the same Earth culture as most Terrans are, or I have to try to teach them about my culture."

"Learning about each other is part of the charm of any relationship, Malyenki," she reminded him kindly.

"It's a waste of effort," he explained miserably, a sour look on his face. "Even when they seem interested, it always turns out that they think I'm joking: making it all up."

"You've taught them well," Tatiana replied evenly, her eyes steady on him. "You've perfected that funny person to keep the real you hidden. Now, you can't spend your life hiding who you are behind your sense of humor and then complain when they don't take you seriously."

Nodding somberly again, he gave a weak shrug. "I've done it to myself," he admitted. "But it's too late now to do anything about it. What's the point of getting involved–investing all that time and energy–when they don't have any real interest in me at all?"

"So," Tatiana drew out, blue eyes warm with humor. "You've just given up on dating entirely?"

He chewed on his lip a moment, staring at his thumb as he rubbed an invisible spot on the railing. "Now entirely," Chekov answered quietly after a moment. "I just need to be with someone who understands: someone who's like me.

"God help the universe if there's someone else like you around."

"That's not what I meant," he said sullenly. She knew perfectly well what he meant: she always did. "I've reached the point in my life where short-term relationships don't appeal to me any longer. If I'm going to make that kind of effort, I want it to be for something long-term. Girlfriends are a dime a dozen."

"My word, that plentiful?" she asked with a smirk.

Chekov just nodded again. He had the irresistible urge to grab Tatiana and kiss her forcefully. It had been obvious she had enjoyed kissing him before. Why did she always have to be such a pain in the ass? he wondered.

He carefully caressed her elegant back slowly, the silky feel of her thick hair sending a hot thrill through him as it brushed against the back of his hand and tangled in his fingers. "Kiss me, Tiana," he said huskily.

"You want to kiss me?"

"Yes," he replied emphatically.

She screwed up her face, unimpressed. "Get in line."

"Line?" he repeated indignantly. "But I'm your husband!"

"Husband?" she asked incredulously. "Now you have lost your mind!"

Stubbornly, Chekov leaned toward her again. "Kiss me," he insisted.

She recoiled instantly, bright eyes incredulous. "Are you going to try to shove your tongue down my throat again?"

"I never..." he retorted indignantly, but stopped suddenly at her amazed look.

"Not stupid," she reminded him lightly.

He bit his lip as his face colored again. "It wasn't intentional," he mumbled. "Besides, most people like it."

"Hmph," she growled, turning back to lean her arms on the rail as she gazed at the stars again. "You aren't most people: you don't french kiss until you're ready to make the relationship physical." Tatiana glanced back at him, her eyes shining with amusement.

Chekov shifted uncomfortably. _Heavens, does she know everything about me? _he thought horridly.

"So, are we supposed to mark this reunion with a passionate fling?" she asked dryly without turning to him.

"What happens when you come home next–we go back to sharing a bed as brother and sister?"

That situation now seemed as bizarre as Chekov supposed it always should have.

"Or am I going to be the girl in your home port until you get bored with me?"

"I would never treat you like that!" he retorted indignantly.

"No. You wouldn't treat anyone like that," she observed, subdued.

Chekov stared at Tatiana as she gazed out at the stars, mesmerized by the fiery shine in her bright eyes. _I need someone who understands me_... his own words came filtering back through his mind and he was disappointed at how pitifully they captured what he had only come to understand himself.

He wondered how he could possibly make Tatiana understand something he had no words for. His gaze shifted to the stars. As was often the case, he found his answers there. Gently, he turned her to face him. "Let me show you why I come here, Tiana."

"I thought this was why you come to this lounge," she said, indicating the starfield filling the window beside them.

Chekov shook his head. "No. Close your eyes."

She eyed him dubiously.

"Go ahead, close them," he insisted. "I won't bite."

"It's not your bite I'm worried about."

He scowled at her: as if anyone who made unwanted advances wouldn't come away far worse for the wear.

She made a great show of sighing in resignation before she closed her eyes.

Chekov slipped his hand on top of hers resting on the rail, delighted with the tremor it sent rushing through him. He leaned close to her ear and whispered: "Listen."

Tatiana was silent a long moment. "I hear the ship's engines," she said eventually. "I can feel them through the deck, too."

"No," he instructed quietly. "Ignore the engines. Block them out and listen only to this room. Concentrate."

"That would be easier if you weren't breathing in my ear," she observed curtly.

With a chastised grin, he straightened and watched her soft features as she tuned out the sounds of the ship.

She stretched her neck elegantly and opened her eyes slowly, wonder shining in them. "What is that sound?"

Chekov smiled shyly, his dark eyes brilliant. "That's the sound of stardust," he explained quietly.

Tatiana scowled incredulously at him. "Stardust has a sound?" she demanded. "How naive do you think I am?"

The Security Chief's grin flashed across his features, becoming outright wild. "No, it's true," he insisted. "There are billions of particles of stars floating everywhere in space and, as the ship speeds along, they stream along the hull." He had long since learned to hear the steady hissing sound so apparent in this room without concentrating. "That's the sound of stardust."

"So the hiss…is the sound of the stardust flowing over the ship as it moves?"

"Yes," he agreed, and paused long enough to kiss the top of her head. Lord, she smelled good.

"When you travel in space, the sound of stardust is always there. It becomes so much a part of your life that you stop hearing it, though. You forget how important stardust is."

"It's what we're made of," Tatiana observed, her eyes sweeping over the starfield they stood next to. "At the most basic level, we and the stars are the same."

"That's why I like this lounge. It reminds me of my place in the universe: and of the basic things in my life." He grasped the hand his still rested on. "Tatiana, I don't want a girlfriend. I want a wife," he said, seeming to change the subject so quickly that she glanced sharply at him.

"Another?" she asked lightheartedly, a trace of a smile playing on her lips. "Is that legal?"

He eyed her with a sheepish smile, but didn't answer directly. "Sulu told me I should spend less time sulking and figure out what I actually want."

"Oh," she drawled with a disappointed pout. "And you're so good at sulking."

Chekov's gaze remained steady on her as he considered that she always knew how to handle him: when to engage in mind-boggling philosophical discussions and when to just knock him upside the head so he'd stop taking himself so seriously. She could manipulate his moods as easily as she hid treats in their Easter bread. She always understood…and that thought made his self-doubt fade completely. She was toying with him.

"What I want is a family to go home to in Russia when I get leave," he explained.

"You have a family: a very close family. You've even dragged Hikaru and I into your family."

He shrugged amiably in agreement. He couldn't deny it after all. In fact, the first thing Andrie had said to Sulu when they met was that he wouldn't have told Pavel he couldn't have a cat had he known his son would start dragging stray people home instead.

Sulu was still known as 'Kitten' by all their Russian friends. Strangely enough, he didn't seem to mind it.

"I mean I want a family of my own: a wife, hordes of children."

She turned away from him again, sighing gently and brushing her hands absently along the rail. "Any wife of yours on Earth would have to be able to put up with being alone most of the time. That puts a crimp in your 'hordes of children' plans."

"Women have waited at home for men who follow the stars for as long as boats have been put into Earth's oceans. Some journeys back then were up to eight years long. We get leave at home more often than that," he maintained.

"Yes," she agreed. "But they got scrimshaw occasionally. What will you be carving pictures in?"

He withheld the smile that her taunt inspired. "That's not the only problem," he observed. "I'm not going to change who I am. I want my children raised back home. My wife has to live with my parents and let them help raise the children. She has to become a part of my family and community."

She laughed without looking at him. "You forgot the most important thing, Pavel Andrieivich." Tatiana cast him a wry, sidelong look. "This ideal mate of yours is going to have to be able to put up with you."

"I'm not a man who's always easy to live with," he agreed with a sheepish look. "I'm moody, I'm spoiled, I'm..."

"Pig-headed. You sulk, are given to fits of guilt-ridden recrimination..."

"I didn't need your help!" he interrupted indignantly.

"You are also loyal, devoted, kind, intelligent," she observed soothingly.

"Fine qualities in a dog," he muttered unhappily.

Tatiana turned toward him then, a toying glint in her blue eyes. "So, are you planning a life-long futile search for this perfect mate, or are you just going to skip right to contacting genetic engineers?"

Chekov fell silent then, studying the woman that had been an integral part of his life for nine years. Pale, soft skin betrayed her gentle nature and inner wisdom. They knew where they fit in each other's lives, had every movement of their dance together woven into their very souls. He listened to the sound of stardust beside them as he stared at her, reminded that people are so rarely aware of what they have. Tatiana Demidova was the sound of stardust in his soul. She'd been there, a constant, for as long as he recalled: and he needed her there.

"Tatiana, I love you."

"I know."

"No," he said quietly and swallowed with difficultly. "I mean I am in love with you."

"Yes," she replied simply, blue eyes warm. "I know."

He pulled himself up to his full height and eyed her incredulously. "And exactly how do you know this?"

"Oh, please," Tatiana drawled. "Everybody knows it. You've been in love with me for years, Pavel. Your father says you're the densest man in the universe."

"Dense? My father wouldn't say such a thing about me."

"He does," she insisted. "Malyenki, for such a brilliant person, you are wholly, utterly, completely, plumb dense."

"So why hasn't anyone told me about how dense I am?" he demanded.

"Oh, they wanted to," she shrugged light-heartedly. "Especially Sulu: but I wouldn't let them."

"And why not?" he asked indignantly, fighting to keep the self-righteous sulk off his face.

She sighed heavily. "Pavel, you're a man that has to figure things out for yourself."

Damn it, Chekov thought, clenching his teeth. Did she always have to be right?

He forced himself not to be indignant then. "I want you to marry me."

She straightened at that, brilliant blue eyes widening. "We are married, Pavel."

"No, I mean really marry me."

"Now why would I want to put up with you really, for God knows how long?"

He stared at her in silence. "It might not be that long," he observed after a moment. "I work in space: I could die tomorrow."

"There's a perk to hope for," she commented easily.

A myriad of thoughts drifted through his mind, unbidden. "Tiana," he asked curiously. "Are you even interested in men?"

"I'm not gay," she stated stiffly, pulling her eyes away to stare meaninglessly at the benches in the dim.

"Than why don't you date?"

Jamming her arms across her chest, Tatiana eyed him dubiously. "And who would I date, Pavel? Thanks to you I am never alone, except with members of the family. On these dates I would be accompanied by your father or by your bodyguards?" she asked.

Chekov felt his insides go cold. "My...? They're not bodyguards!"

She rolled her eyes melodramatically.

"I'm sorry," he said with desperation in his voice. "I never meant for it to be like that."

Her gaze grew hard, accusatory. "Oh, please: yes, you did."

"I didn't!" he exclaimed in horror.

"Pavel," she drew out tolerantly, "The men you assigned me were not there to carry my luggage. They were a moat designed to keep all other men away until you were ready."

"They most certainly were not! You're insane!" he blurted out, dark eyes wild.

"Fine. Then who would you have had me date?" Tatiana asked patiently. "Volya? He's your good friend: would it have been alright if I slept with Volya?"

He blinked. Hard. "Volya is gay."

"Okay, how about Grigori?" she continued on. "He's cute and his butt is almost as nice as yours. He doesn't have a hairy chest, though," she mused.

"Grigori is old enough to be your father," Chekov observed dismally. She was right, he realized. There was no one that he would have ever thought good enough for her. Had he unknowingly plotted to keep them away?

"I'm sorry," he conceded, chagrined. "Why didn't you say something?" Oh, hell, he was glad she had not. He was glad they had left her alone.

Tatiana let her arms fall by her side and sighed softly. "You are dense, Malyenki. It doesn't matter that I'm theoretically available. Everyone knows how you feel about me and I am treated like an untouchable member of royalty. You're not the kind of man another man wants to muscle in on, you know."

Chekov shifted uncomfortably, trying not to remember the not so veiled threat he'd made to Kirk.

"Frankly, it was a relief," she added, sly grin dancing on her lips. "I didn't want them."

He studied her, calculating. "You like my chest better than Grigori's?" he ventured finally.

"I didn't say I liked it better," Tatiana replied carefully. "I said it was hairier."

"You...like...hairy men?"

"I didn't say that," she repeated. "Besides, it's not like you have a hairy back."

Scowling, he eyed her for another minute. That always seemed to matter to women. Women in rural Russia didn't allow men to take the kind of liberties with them that Chekov had been lately...that he'd always taken. At least not without a fight. In hindsight, Chekov knew that Sulu and his family had good reason to suspect what they did. A knowing smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Why didn't you want them?" he persisted.

"Because I wanted you, dammit!" she spat out fiercely, punching him soundly in the chest.

He grinned happily in triumph and nursed the bruise she'd given him. "Tatiana Demidova, how long have you been in love with me?"

She sulked noticeably, shaking her head as her eyes shifted back to the stars. "Since your first leave home from the Enterprise. When you come home in your uniform... you didn't look like my big brother anymore."

Chekov's smile faltered, the light in his eyes becoming alarmed. Memory after memory flashed through his mind in horrid, gruesome, detail. "Since...? Tiana, that was..."

"Years ago," she concluded dismally, turning back to eye him like he was an idiot. "Years ago."

"All those years and you never told me?" he demanded, suddenly feeling outraged and downright violated. "How could you not tell me?"

"Pavel," she marveled aloud. "You were twenty-one and had an adventurous new career in space. You were off...romancing your way through the galaxy," Tatiana concluded, amusement sparkling deep in her blue eyes as she tortured him with his own words again. "We've always been best friends and I didn't want to lose that."

"Bullshit," Chekov retorted immediately. Even as he said it, he shifted uncomfortably. It was the same thought that had terrified him all week. "What gives you the right to make that decision for me? Since when have you simply made decisions for us and held me to them?" he demanded hotly.

"Oh, please, Pavel," she drawled. "Since always."

"You weren't ready for more and we are so important to each other that if I told you...if something had happened... you would have been obliged by your own conscience to be loyal to me and... Idiot, don't you realize you would have left the Fleet to ensure your own good behavior?

"I couldn't let you do that," Tatiana added bluntly.

He didn't know why he even bothered to consider the larger questions in life. She always seemed at least several steps ahead of him in finding his answers. Tatiana just knew him too well, as if his soul was far clearer to her than it was to him.

"Marry me," Chekov repeated.

"No."

He froze, eyes narrowing slightly as he eyed her. "What?"

"Nyet," she retorted.

Chekov straightened indignantly. "No?" he asked breathlessly, his voice cracking. "No? Tiana, I thought you understood. We're close friends. We know each other. We understand each other. We love each other. We're in love with each other.

"Tiana, this is different than anything I've ever felt before. This is...real. You have been a part of my soul for as long as I can remember. We've never had to be physically living with each other for that to be true, but if you leave my life my soul will never recover and I will be alone forever. Forever," he emphasized huskily.

Liquid blue eyes stared up at him, unwavering as his brown ones held them, desperate for an answer. She let out a tremulous sigh and patted his chest softly, thoughtfully, with both hands. "Pavel Andrievich, you don't mean we should just start living as husband and wife. I know you: you want a traditional Russian wedding, all three days of it. What do you expect me to do: go home and wait around, hoping that you'll eventually make it back to Earth alive at least one more time?

"You've always said space was, is, and always will be, the most dangerous occupation available. I know clearly every time I see you walk away that it could be the last time I see you. If I went home to prepare for our wedding and our family then you never returned…" She raised swirling pools of cloudy sapphire to him then. "I would wilt away and die, Pavel. The wasting, rotting bloom of youth and love never realized," she observed. "I'm not about to consign myself to being the pitiful heroine os some old Russian novel."

Chekov numbly reached his hand out and grasped the rail as a chill swept through his body and gripped the deepest part of its cells. "You want me to resign?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Tatiana chuckled as she shook her head. "This is your dream. It is who you are. I am more than content to be an officer's wife waiting at home.

"Besides," she added. "What do you think the people back home would do to me if I saddled them with you full time again? I can't imagine how the ship's crew has put up with you this long," she commented drolly.

He tried to digest the myriad of confusion quickly. "What do you want?"

"I want a husband."

"Than marry me," Chekov insisted, becoming perplexed..

Her snicker was not even close to the response he'd hoped for. "I told you that I'm ready to start a family. I don't want to wait for you to wander home. I want children now."

He flashed her a wicked grin, eyes sparkling devilishly as they raked her form quickly. "I'm willing, but these lounge doors don't lock...Oww!"

With great melodrama, the Security Chief nursed the cheek the woman had slapped. "You give me no respect."

"Oh, go respect yourself," she muttered.

The toying grin never left his face. She was so able to wrap him around her little finger…and he was now able to appreciate the fact that he loved letting her do it. "I want you to marry me," he repeated yet again. "There's no one in the universe that knows me like you do. There's no one who can keep me in line like you can." He added a sheepish look for good measure.

"And because of this you want me to be stuck with you forever?"

"Well, who else would put up with me?" he spat out defensively.

"No one sane," Tatiana replied. "I don't want to wait to get married."

Chekov stood holding her gaze in silence a long moment. He felt...dense. "Captain Kirk can marry us," he said, knowing full well that's what she was suggesting. If she wasn't such a pain in the ass she would have just said so. "People who would not be comfortable at a traditional Russian ceremony could attend."

"Spock?" she mused curiously. Of course she knew that he was specifically referring to Spock. The man would have wanted to attend the wedding out of principal, but the Security Chief could not picture a Vulcan at a ceremony in which the Best Man was thought to have completely failed in his duties if anyone made it to the church sober.

A withheld smile played across her lips, but her brilliant blue eyes gave away her thoughts. "Or are you talking about Sulu? The poor man has been praying for years that you won't get married in Russia."

"Don't worry, we'll do the traditional Russian ceremony afterward–the next leave I get at home."

Scowling at him, she asked: "Exactly how many times are we going to get married?"

He shrugged simplistically. "Is there a limit? It would be cruel not to let Sulu live up to his responsibilities. A ceremony here, now: with this you're satisfied?"

Tatiana eyed him suspiciously. "He does know the Godfather can fill in and do anything the best man doesn't want to do, doesn't he?"

Chekov coughed reflexively and shifted his gaze to the stars.

"Pavel Andrievich!"

"Oh, it won't kill him.

She cast her eyes down then with a gentle sigh, letting her fingers trail down until she pushed them into the top of his belt. "Malyenki, I told you: it's not just a husband I want."

Chekov could feel the tremor go through her body as she turned her eyes back up to him. "Pavel..." She hesitated, pressing her lips together as her fingers gripped his belt fiercely. "Pavel, I want children now. I'm ready now."

He shook his head slowly then, chocolate brown eyes narrowing as he studied her. "Now?"

"Now."

Chekov mulled her words over in his mind as he watched her eyes for some betrayal of what she was actually saying. "Right now?

Tatiana smiled softly, her fingers tracing the Starfleet belt buckle as she gazed at his face. "I'm not willing to chance being a widow without any piece of you to hold onto."

"You want me to send you home pregnant?" he asked incredulously.

She smiled at him triumphantly in answer. "What, you're not up to the task?

Chekov tried to speak. Several times. He shook his head as though to sort out his thoughts. The truth was, he could not move beyond the embarrassingly primordial thrill of her outright demand to bear his child.

Tatiana didn't say anything until it was obvious he wasn't going to. "Besides, Malyenki, if you want a horde of children we're going to have to plan our time together accordingly."

Eyes sparkling devilishly, he grinned. "Tiana, I love you and want children with you...more than anything. You know, however, that I can't promise you anything. Basic biology has the final say in the matter. It's not up to me if the timing isn't right." Not that he wasn't willing to make a valiant effort, he thought. He felt the heat in his cheeks betray the thought and she gave him a toying, condescending smile.

"Malyenki, you're thinking with a nineteenth century mind in a twenty-third century world. Dr. McCoy can arrange for the timing to be right."

He blinked, staring at her in surprise. "Dr. McCoy could…" he stopped. "When could the Doctor do this?"

Releasing his belt, she folded her hands calmly in front of her and regarded him with wide, sedate eyes. Blue eyes met brown ones in a steady stare. "It's already done."

Something clutched fiercely at his heart as the impact of what she had been saying hit him with sudden, full force. It was not that she wanted to bear his children, not even that she wanted to give him children immediately. What struck him was that for years she had patiently been waiting for him to be ready for this moment, planning each precise detail and probably every word.

Tentatively, he reached up a hand and brushed stray hairs off her face. He did not answer her directly, but knew she'd understand. "Tatiana Demidova," he confessed, "I've been keeping a secret from you."

For the first time, Chekov saw uncertainty in her blue eyes. He chewed on his lip as he fished in his pocket, but couldn't hide the sheepish look in his eyes. When he extended his hand out to her, two small round circles lay in his upturned palm.

Tatiana stepped back reflexively. "Pavel Andrieivich," she exclaimed in shock. "The shopkeeper said he sold those rings!"

"He did." He shrugged apologetically, trying to look his most boyishly innocent. "He did sell them. To me."

"But why?" she asked, perplexed. "Why would you... You never told me."

No, he hadn't. He had secreted the wedding set away despite the sorrow it had caused her. It wasn't his intention to hide them when he bought them. They had found them tucked away in the shop and time and again they had returned to admire them. It had become one of their favorite games to weave stories of the couple the antique rings had been made for. Sometimes blissfully happy, romantic tales; sometimes melodramatic and tragic: the stories were always rich and colorful in past lives. As time went on, their visits to the shop became frightening tentative as they faced the increased probability every time he went home that the rings would be gone

In a moment of sheer panic, he had snuck back and bought them on one trip. He couldn't bear for rings that held the stories to go to someone else, to be taken from them. Fully intending to share the victory with her, for some reason he'd brought them back to the Enterprise and hid them away instead. Knowing they were in his safe always gave him great pleasure without him even needing to take the four rings out to gaze at them.

He knew the reason now. Somewhere deep inside he had always felt the unique, beautiful rings were destined to be used by he and Tatiana for the purpose they were originally made.

Chekov picked up the smaller of the rings, his throat tightening as he did so. It was exquisite Russian blackened neillo with a scattering of diamond chips surrounding a piece of Baltic amber. He gently slipped it onto her right ring finger.

She flattened her hand and stared at the engagement ring. "Does this mean you're going to do what I want?"

"When haven't I?" he asked with mock resignation.

Even before his answer, she was guiding the matching ring onto his own right hand. "Most Terran men don't wear engagement rings," she observed, fingering the black and gold band where it came to lay on his right hand.

"I'm not most Terran men, I'm a Russian man and we do wear engagement rings. They also wear their wedding rings on their left hand and make the sign of the cross backwards. Just because they're wrong, doesn't me I should be."

"What about the other rings?" Tatiana asked, referring to the two wedding rings that completed the set.

He knew why she asked. "Let's wait for the church ceremony before we use them. The Captain's quite used to ceremonies without rings."

"Will you be able to locate Captain Kirk to arrange this?"

"The Security Chief can always find the Captain," Chekov commented absently. Smouldering brown eyes studied the woman's flawless face, delicate lips and brilliant eyes. He swallowed carefully and let the warmth flow through his body, nursing it until it grew in intensity and swelled out to his very fingertips.

Moving closer to her, he slipped his arm around her back and pulled her against him. He leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. "If we have a son, I want to name him Andrie."

He could feel her body trembling but she only said: "Even spoiled people don't get everything they want. If we name our son Andrie, your father's head will explode."

"Fine then," he agreed, a guttural laugh filling his throat that told her she had played into his hands. "We'll call our daughter Andrea."

"You're a wicked, spoiled brat, Pavel Andrievich!"

"You knew that. At least tell him that's what we intend," Chekov laughed demonically again. Using his hand against her back, he pressed the length of his body hard against her. It sent a wild, delicious rush through his very cells. When she glanced away demurely he only took advantage of it to nuzzle his lips into the warm flesh behind her ear. He was too distracted to notice the glint in her sparkling eyes.

"I want to name our daughter Ninel," she commented softly.

He jerked his head up, snapping his neck as he did so. Wide-eyed and stunned, he repeated: "Ninel!"

Tatiana shrugged. "It was a very popular name for girls at one time in Russia."

"At one time," he stammered incredulously and stepped backward. "I am NOT naming any of my daughters after Vladimir Lenin!"

She giggled merrily and he instantly glared at her. "You did that on purpose."

Deliberately stepping forward, Chekov went to reach for her again, but she stopped him with a hand against his chest. She gently took his right hand, placed it against the back of her left shoulder blade and laid her left hand on his right shoulder.. She then clasped his left hand with her right and raised it to shoulder height.

Subtle lines furrowing across his forehead, Chekov eyed the position of their bodies. She had placed them in a perfect dance frame. "You want to waltz...now!" he asked in disbelief.

Tatiana smiled dreamily, blue eyes shining as she caressed his shoulder affectionately. "You know what Fred Astaire said: 'The best romantic scenes don't end in a kiss."

"I'm a good dancer," he admitted. Leaning down, he caught her soft, moist lips with his in a brief, tentative touch. "But Fred Astaire," he declared as he wrapped her arms around her and pulled their bodies tight against each other again. "Was an idiot."

His lips found hers finally in a touch that was not in the least tentative.


End file.
